Above and Beyond
by thegraytigress
Summary: In February of 1944, Captain America fought his way through a blizzard and broke apart a HYDRA blockade in central Italy that was choking the Allies. Those closest to him tell the tale of this act of heroism, which saved the lives of over a thousand soldiers and inspired them to stay strong in the face of the toughest adversity.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence, dramatized scenes of war)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Hi, everyone! So this is the long-promised story about Steve, Bucky, and the Howling Commandos. It will be six chapters, telling the tale Peggy mentioned in _Captain America: The Winter Soldier._ I tried to be as historically accurate as possible, but I am by no means an expert on World War II. If you see mistakes, please let me know. I also might adjust things as necessary for dramatic purposes.

This story will focus mostly on Steve and Bucky's friendship, with Steve/Peggy explored as well. I hope you all enjoy, and thanks for reading!

**ABOVE AND BEYOND**

**1**

"_The war would have been lost without Captain America. Simply put, his sacrifice saved the world from HYDRA. And it was not only that. It was two years of fighting and struggling and staying true to his cause in the face of adversity. It was beating unbeatable odds and doing whatever was necessary to see people protected and the war effort against the Nazis succeed. It was staying strong for his men, for all of us. I… I always think of 1944. That was a difficult winter. A blizzard had trapped our battalion behind the German line. Steve – Captain Rogers… He fought his way through a HYDRA blockade that had pinned our allies down for months. He saved over a thousand men, including the man who would become my husband, as it turned out. Even after his death, Steve was still changing my life."  
><em>– Peggy Carter, 1953

_February 8__th__, 1944_

Bucky hated winter.

He'd hated it when he and Steve had been kids, shivering together under the threadbare blankets in his old bedroom in Brooklyn. He'd hated it when they'd been older, too, scrounging for things to burn because the heater kept going out in their apartment. He'd hated being cold, hated how the wind cut through his clothes despite the layers he always wore beneath his coat, hated how the chill seemed to seep through his skin and into his bones where it was firmly lodged from November to April. He'd hated how everything that had been hard enough during the year, like keeping steady work and enough food on the table and clothes on their backs, became so much harder during the long winter months. He'd hated how the snow and ice had been thick on the panes of every window in Brooklyn, dirty and deep on the streets, and slick and treacherous on each stoop. He'd hated the struggle, the endlessness and futility of it, the dreariness of it all, the sense of being trapped and tormented. He'd especially hated how Steve's poor, weak lungs had struggled in the frigid air, the icy temperatures aggravating his asthma and continually threatening him with influenza or pneumonia or rheumatic fever or worse. At least that wasn't a concern anymore.

But he still hated winter. He really goddamn _hated_ winter.

"So bloody cold," Falsworth muttered beside him. The Brit was shivering, pulling his coat tighter around himself and shifting on the cold ground. The terrain was keeping them hidden as it was lined with many small trees, a great deal of craggy brush, and (of course) a ridiculous accumulation of snow. Bucky figured with the cover they had, any German snipers in the HYDRA factory down the hillside probably couldn't see them. On top of that, it was dusk, the last gray light of day coating everything in long shadows. And it was snowing. Of course it was snowing because it never seemed to stop snowing. Any gunner would have to look through the darkness and the cascade of white to catch sight of them. Still, their little group wasn't taking any chances. He, Falsworth, Morita, and Dernier were laying low, staying as invisible as possible. Laying low and waiting. "You have anything?" Falsworth asked.

Bucky stared down the scope of his rifle. Unfortunately, the bad weather was something of a double-edged sword. He couldn't get a decent view of the entrance to the HYDRA factory grounds. Shadows and piles of snow masqueraded as men. Dugan, Steve, and Jones had dispensed with the patrols on their way in, and so far no additional HYDRA soldiers had appeared. But that didn't mean they weren't there. "Negative," he said, tense and unhappy with the situation. "Time?"

Morita rolled to his back on Bucky's other side, turning on his flashlight and covering it so that the light would be hidden. He was reading his watch. "Been twenty-three minutes."

"Shit," Bucky breathed. He couldn't help his worry. "What the hell's takin' them so long?"

"Easy," Falsworth coolly reminded. "Rogers said to wait until they're on the outside."

Bucky didn't like this. He _never_ liked this. Sure, to the rest of the Howling Commandos, to the 107th and SSR, to the whole goddamn _army_ Steve was Captain America. Steve was indomitable, brave and steady and the best tactician in the service. Steve was invincible. But to Bucky he was still just Steve, and it was his job to take care of Steve. Seeing Steve in that new body, as tall as him now, broad and bound in muscles and strength, had been hands-down the biggest shock of his life. It was so unbelievable that for a couple days after Steve had rescued him and the rest of the 107th from HYDRA he couldn't convince himself that it was real. This stranger with Steve's face and Steve's eyes and Steve's voice and Steve's unerring loyalty to him had been beside him, nursing him through the worst of his recovery, and that couldn't be possible, so he was still back in that HYDRA hell where those bastards were torturing him and pumping his body full of their poisons. Eventually he managed to convince himself that this insanity was the truth, that little sickly Steve Rogers had gotten his wish to join the army and had somehow become Captain America. He was not given much of a chance to doubt, because the war was going on and SSR was sending Captain America on a crusade against HYDRA. And Captain America had needed a team.

Since then, things had been stressful, new but not at the same time. Bucky was still trying to get a handle on it sometimes. The nightmares and miseries he still suffered from his time as HYDRA's prisoner aside, being around the new Steve was taking some getting used to. So much of their friendship had been grounded in Bucky standing up for Steve, in Bucky taking care of Steve when he had been beaten up or sick, in Bucky warding off the worst of the bullies and reminding Steve with ginger respect for his ego but with firmness out of fear for his life that he just couldn't do these things he thought he could do. Steve didn't need him like that anymore. He was more than capable of caring for himself, stronger and faster than anyone _ever_, so not having that foundation was a little (_a lot_) unsettling. The new Steve fought hard and knocked men down like it was nothing and made feats of strength and endurance that should have been absolutely impossible seem simple and natural. A few short months ago, Bucky was scraping Steve's scrawny ass up off the ground of seemingly every alley in Brooklyn, and now Steve was cutting through Nazis like they were nothing because they _were_ nothing compared to him. The stubbornness was the same. And the damn willingness to constantly use his body like a shield (even though he had an actual shield now, for Christ's sakes). But this new dynamic of _Steve _being the big one and _Steve_ being the strong one and the fast one and _Steve Rogers for crying out loud _being the popular one with the dames… Holy hell, it was enough to make his head spin sometimes. Not that he wasn't happy for Steve. Steve had finally gotten everything he'd wanted, a body capable of supporting his huge heart and his sharp mind, and Bucky was all kinds of thankful for that. It was just a lot to take in.

And, as if dealing with Steve's transformation wasn't enough of a challenge, they were in the middle of a brutal war. There was no time (and when there was time, there was no energy) to sort out their friendship. Steve was his captain now, and in the last six months since the Howling Commandos had formed, been equipped by Howard Stark, and sent out on their mission to destroy HYDRA, they'd been continually in the throes of some mission or another. They were assigned the operations across Switzerland and into Germany that no other team could handle, and in the short time since they'd started fighting together, they'd become a well-oiled machine. Steve, their commanding officer, the one who made the plans and led them into the fray. Falsworth, his second, steady and no-nonsense and pragmatic. Dugan and Jones, loyal muscle and power. Dernier and Morita, experts in equipment and explosives and arms. And Bucky, the eyes and ears on everything, the best sharpshooter they had (the best in the 107th, honestly). They worked together perfectly despite contradicting personalities and egos and opinions. Uniting against a common enemy (and trying to get a little payback for Bolzano) tended to do that. They were on a quest to eliminate every HYDRA base, factory, outpost, and stronghold from Europe, and they'd made some pretty decent progress.

But then they'd been summoned to rejoin SSR in Italy, and everything had changed.

As the Commandos had broken off from the Allied strongholds in Venice to begin their mission northward, the 107th and SSR had been redeployed to aid in trying to break the German line in Italy. The Allied offensive wasn't going well. HYDRA and the Germans were well-fortified in the hills around Rome, and overcoming their defenses was proving extremely difficult. The wintry conditions were hell on top of it. The Commandos had lost contact with SSR two days ago as they'd trudged northward toward this last HYDRA factory in central Italy, so details coming out of SSR's battalion headquarters were scarcely had. After finishing their mission here, they were due to rendezvous with the main infantry near Cassino. The radio silence was not comforting. Nor was it comforting that the weather was so cold and deplorable. If they finish up here and didn't get a move on soon, the situation would go from bad to worse.

And it _definitely_ was not comforting that Steve, Dum Dum, and Gabe had been gone this long. This was one of the things Bucky was having the hardest time accepting. He didn't _need_ to look after Steve anymore. He had to let Steve go, let him fight his own fights and do what he needed to, and that bothered him something fierce because it always had been his (self-appointed) duty to make sure Steve didn't get in over his head. He was used to worrying about Steve; the dumb punk never knew what was good for him (signing himself up for a dangerous experimental procedure that had radically altered his body case in point). But this was one step above torture, being stuck out here and not knowing what was going on.

"Storm's getting worse," Morita grumbled, settling himself on his belly beside Bucky again, pulling his Grease gun out from under him. He glanced worriedly up at the thick, dark clouds hanging low and dumping snow on them faster and faster by the minute. "We're gonna get buried if we don't get the hell out of here soon."

"Hold it together," Falsworth ordered softly. He sighed, his breath a jet of vapor in front of his chapped lips as he scooted closer. The scuffle of his boots and clothing on rock was annoyling loud. He lifted his binoculars and scanned the yard of the factory again, wincing as he did. Bucky resumed looking down the sight of his rifle. Anxiety roiled tightly and miserably in the pit of his stomach when he found the same useless scene of snow and shadows. God, where the hell were they? Steve, Dugan, and Jones were supposed to take out the HYDRA soldiers on patrol, slip in, find the HYDRA cipher machine they were pretty sure was inside this factory, and rig the place to blow. Reconnaissance had shown the factory to be fairly deserted; this wasn't one the main facilities churning out HYDRA weapons or parts for whatever they were assembling (figuring that out was becoming a priority), so it wasn't well-manned. They'd been trying to get their hands on a cipher for weeks now, and their intel had led them to believe this location had one ripe for the stealing. But it shouldn't have taken this long. Bucky had never counted himself terribly patient, but waiting like this, not knowing a damn thing about what was happening… "I see them. Eight o'clock."

Bucky looked again, jolting with energy. Over the low whisper of the wind, he heard the crackle of gunfire and that whine of HYDRA weapons discharging. Blue lights reflected in the snow near the rear entrance of the factory's main building. And the shine of Steve's shield spinning through the air was unmistakable. "They're coming out hot," Bucky announced unhappily.

Morita was already scrambling to his feet. "Thank God," he said, starting to scramble down the hill through the snow and the brush. "My ass was starting to freeze to the ground."

"No. Rogers has this in hand. You and Dernier go back," Falsworth ordered. "Get the truck started."

Morita looked displeased, but not enough to bitch about it. He nodded to Dernier, and the two of them hauled themselves up the hill to the road above where they had hidden the truck.

Something exploded down in the factory. Visibility was so poor that it was difficult to tell what. He could see Dugan's Winchester firing, the very distinctive _blam blam_ of it echoing in the hills. Jones was out ahead with a sack over his shoulder, trying to run across the yard but it was difficult with the snow and shadows hiding obstructions and pitfalls. And Steve was staying behind, facing down a veritable squadron of HYDRA goons. "You sure about this bein' under control?" Bucky asked worriedly.

"Bloody hell," Falsworth groaned. "Go!"

Bucky was up and running. He skidded through the snow, the ground unstable under his boots as he thundered down the hillside. Thankfully the HYDRA soldiers and their commanding officer (whose furious shouts Bucky could still hear even over the pounding of his own heart and the racket of battle) were pretty focused on killing Captain America. It hadn't taken long at all for Steve's name to spread among the Nazis and HYDRA, and since liberating the 107th from Bolzano, he'd been on the top of both Schmidt's and the Third Reich's hit list. He always attracted the lion's share of opposition (and thus danger – Bucky was not pleased about that, though his complaints and worries fell on deaf ears), so the HYDRA officer was screaming at his men to bring down Steve. That meant they didn't notice as Bucky sprinted across the way, cutting through the snow and the brush, to reach the edge of the yard. He drew to a quick stop, bringing his rifle up. The view wasn't much better, even this close, but now he could at least tell the bad guys from the good. He pulled the trigger, and one of the HYDRA soldiers fell, shot in the forehead. He picked off three more before they retaliated. A blast of blue careened toward him, and Bucky dove into the snow.

Falsworth was right there beside him, his revolver firing sharply. More HYDRA soldiers fell. Bucky rolled and shot another, a huge one bearing down on Steve. The bullet didn't kill him, but the force of the impact was enough to destroy his stance and give Steve time to knock him down. Steve landed a fierce kick to the man's chest, and he collapsed into the snow. "Come on, Cap!" Dugan shouted, turning and unloading his shotgun again. Jones was beside him, nursing a bleeding shoulder. More and more enemies were flooding from the burning factory. Only half of it was ablaze; the larger section was still entirely intact. "God damn this bullshit. It didn't go off!"

That seemed to be some kind of cue. The other building went up with a bang that vibrated the hills and a ball of fire that shot high into the sky. Orange and yellow fingers scraped the low-hanging clouds, and plumes of black smoke spilled into the air. Concussive and powerful, the force of it knocked them all back, and by the time Bucky had picked himself up off the ground, the entire factory was burning hot enough for him to feel it even at this distance.

The HYDRA soldiers were disoriented for a moment, and Steve took advantage. Bucky still couldn't get acclimated to how Steve – _Steve, for crying out loud _– fought now. His skill in hand-to-hand combat was already awe-inspiring, and he was improving more every day. Fast and strong, stronger than anyone anywhere, he was seemingly undefeatable. He was so quick on his feet, so agile, that Bucky could hardly see him as he cut through the remaining company of men. His fists flew, his shield ringing as he rammed it into chests and backs and midriffs, and men cried out as they were knocked down. These soldiers, like most of the soldiers they fought, were really no match for him. Bucky shot a couple more, aiming with quick precision, and in a matter of seconds, the company of enemies lay dead or unconscious in the snow.

Steve stood in the middle of the carnage, breathing a little heavily and eyeing the bodies that were strewn around him suspiciously. Behind him the factory was a raging inferno, spewing heat and flames and bathing him in gold. Then he slid his shield to his back and turned. "Let's go," he said.

They moved, picking their way through the snow and shrubbery and trees back up the hillside. With the factory burning so brightly behind them, it would lead any HYDRA reconnaissance teams in the surrounding hills right to them. The Commandos were silent as they ran, forcing the last surge of energy from themselves. The climb was tiring; they were already worn from the last few days' efforts, and struggling through the snow uphill was miserable to say the least. But they went fast, as fast as they could. Steve stayed in the rear, not winded, not fighting nearly as much as the rest of them to stay upright and moving. Steve never struggled anymore. A few short months ago, walking uphill, let alone in the snow and wind, would have dropped Steve right into an asthma attack with Bucky left to support him. Now he was the one supporting them, maybe not literally but certainly figuratively, guarding their rear, calmly and gently urging them onward.

Once they reached the top of the hill, Jones doubled over. Steve clasped Bucky on the shoulder before stepping closer to Gabe. "Bad?" he asked quietly.

"No," Jones responded, not even glancing at his bleeding shoulder.

"I assume you were successful," Falsworth said, shining his flashlight on Jones. "Although, I suppose if you weren't, it's a little late to do anything about it now."

Jones set the bag he had over his unwounded shoulder to the snow covered road. "No, we got it," he assured. He was gasping and in pain but doing his damnedest to not show it.

There wasn't time to be relieved that the mission was a success or to congratulate each other on a job well done. Bucky heard a low rumble somewhere behind them. He turned, lifting his rifle, jogging away a little to peer down the snowy road. The sun was completely gone now, plunging everything into darkness save for Falsworth's light. Without being told, the Brit shut it off, and the Commandos scattered to the sides of the road for cover, Dugan hefting up the bag and helping Jones. Steve came to stand beside Bucky, his eyes narrowed and warily searching the darkness. The rumble grew louder, echoing in the hills, and Bucky realized what it was.

So did Steve. "Get down!" he cried to the team, yanking Bucky to the ground. It wasn't a moment too soon as the ground behind them exploded in a bright blast of blue and a rain of dirt, debris, and snow. The lumbering form of a HYDRA tank was emerging from the darkness, its massive turret rotating as it came around a bend in the road.

Bucky's heart thundered. "Shit," he whispered. "Fall back to the truck!"

Another shot from the HYDRA gun hit close to them, too close, and its impact with the ground left Bucky reeling for a moment. Then he rolled to his feet, taking a few useless shots at the heavily armored vehicle. The turret shifted again; it was damn hard to see through the wall of snow and the darkness. When the next shot erupted from its muzzle, it was aimed right at them.

"Look out!" Steve cried, shoving Bucky away from the deadly blast. Bucky hadn't been prepared for the force of it; Steve literally threw him nearly to the edge of the hill where he was pinwheeling his arms and scrambling to keep his balance. He whirled just in time to see the ball of blinding illumination hit Steve's shield. He was flung back up the road in the opposite direction, thrown violently into the darkness.

"Steve!" Bucky cried in horror. He fired his rifle at the tank, rage hot in his blood and fear tight in his brain and belly. He stole a glance at the shadows, but Steve wasn't there. _"Steve!"_

The tank's normal guns were snapping, spitting bullets into the night and forcing the Commandos to stay under whatever paltry coverage they had managed to find. Bucky shouldered his empty rifle, grabbing for his handgun and aiming toward where he thought the auxiliary guns were. He pulled the trigger repeatedly, but all he was doing was wasting ammunition. He didn't know if it was done on purpose or if HYDRA was simply disorganized, but every single one of these tanks and armored vehicles the Commandos encountered was slightly different. The gun ports were in random places, the structure riddled with significant deviations that made anticipating the fight difficult and Allied intelligence frustrated to no end. Still, he spent his magazine in futility as the tank rolled by him. Like a lumbering monster, it was headed toward the rest of the Commandos and their truck. More gunfire ratcheted through the night, bullets hitting metal and an engine roaring in anger. Bucky could hardly concentrate on that. Steve still wasn't there. He hadn't come back into the fray. Bucky rolled, avoiding the spit of a machine gun, glancing wildly between the section of the hill where Steve had been knocked away and the tank threatening them. He kept expecting to see that damn ridiculous shield, that stupid, hokey uniform, _Steve_ come barreling out of the darkness to bring hell to their enemies. He frantically fumbled to reload. The Commandos were being pushed back and pushed back hard. He could vaguely hear Falsworth shouting something, Dum Dum yelling angrily, Morita responding in a pinched tone. Still no Steve. _Christ, where is he–_

Right there. Steve was back in a blur of dark blue, charging through the snow with incredible speed and power behind him. The turret turned, abandoning shooting at their truck when it caught sight of Captain America again. However, it wasn't moving fast enough to catch him as he ran and dodged shots that dug gaping holes into the road. The HYDRA tanks were all plated, covered in thick hides made of metal that was difficult to penetrate and repelled most gunfire, but the Commandos weren't equipped with most guns. Steve's darting path was creating a hell of a distraction, allowing Morita to maneuver the truck further away down the road. "Come on!" Jim hollered to the others. Dernier was situating the larger barrel of an anti-tank gun in the flatbed of the truck.

Bucky scrambled toward them, unloading another couple rounds at the tank even though it was useless. Steve dropped to his knees, skidding through the snow and bending low at an almost unnatural angle to avoid another shot from the turret. Bucky caught a glimpse of the grenade in Steve's hand, one of the ones Stark had especially designed to punch through HYDRA's armor plating. Despite the chaos of the fight and the gunfire raining down on them almost as heavily as the snow, Steve lobbed the grenade with stunning accuracy as he rose back to his full height. It landed right against the turret. He must have pulled the pin somewhere before he'd gotten close enough to make the toss. And it went off with a bang that rattled Bucky's bones, ripping the turret clean off the front of the tank.

Right on the tail of that, Dernier fired Stark's anti-tank gun, and the artillery hit the vehicle, pierced the armor, and blew the rest of it to kingdom come. Bucky dove again, covering his head as the force of the explosion slammed into him. He lay still for a moment in the snow and dirt, struggling to overcome the rush of shock that always left him momentarily crippled after being so close to something blowing up like this. He kept waiting for his mind and body to get used to war, and in some ways, he was. But explosions in close quarters still knocked him for a loop (both figuratively and literally). He was pretty damn certain he'd be stone-deaf when he made it back home.

_If I make it back home._ Not the time for thoughts like that.

"Everybody okay?" Steve asked when the roar of the fight had faded to a dull echo along the hills. The sound of Steve's voice was enough to get Bucky going, and he was up, jogging down the short distance of the road toward the truck. He passed the flaming wreckage of the tank, eyeing the bright fire and the smoke and knowing for sure this time it was like a goddamn beacon in the night. Once he got closer to Steve, he spared the other young man glance, looking for signs of injury. Christ, that blast from the HYDRA weapon had hit him _dead on_, but he looked fine. His shield was a little singed. "Bucky?"

"Fine," Bucky said with a curt nod. He was panting more than he liked to admit, so he forced his heart to slow and his lungs to breathe deeply despite the haze of adrenaline and the frigid air. He quickly reloaded his guns again. "We need to get out of here."

"Captain, if this didn't come from the factory–" Falsworth started.

Jones shook his head, exhaling heavily with fatigue and pain. "It didn't. I checked inside. That place was empty."

"Is the whole damn countryside crawlin' with HYDRA?" Dugan questioned irately. Bucky didn't know if it was rhetorical. It didn't matter. Dugan sighed, wiping a grime covered hand down his face to clear away the muddy snow. Aside from a cut across his brow, he seemed fine. "What the hell happened to SSR keeping our path clear?"

Steve didn't have an answer. "Morita, how far is it to base?"

Morita hopped down from the truck. Maybe another man would have needed to check his map, but this guy had a memory that rivaled Steve's. "Six hours, if the weather holds."

"Doesn't look like it's gonna," Bucky remarked unhappily, feeling the wind cut through his jacket and the snow splatter onto this cheeks.

Steve sighed, the strong lines of his shoulders slumping under the firm realization that something serious was wrong. They hadn't been in direct contact with SSR's brass for more than a month, and what was coming to them via wire and radio was sketchy. If the way to the base wasn't clear… Steve stared worriedly at the flaming remains of the tank that had ambushed them. "The only way we'll get any answers is to get there." He slid his shield to his back again and turned to the truck. "Let's go before we attract any more trouble."

* * *

><p>By the time they were halfway between the destroyed HYDRA factory and base, it became pretty obvious they weren't going to make it. Hell, that had been Bucky's foregone conclusion the minute Morita had declared the truck had taken some damage during the fight. Dernier had been spitting curses in French, Jones not even bothering to translate, as he'd looked over the bullet-ridden engine compartment. The truck still operated well enough to get them this far, but they were losing fuel in a slow drain (although Morita said with sarcasm thick in his tone they should be thanking their goddamn lucky stars the fuel tank hadn't actually been shot head on and caught fire). Freezing to death in the middle of the Italian countryside didn't seem that much more preferable to going out in a blaze of fiery glory, so Bucky figured it was something of six of one, half dozen of the other. When the truck finally sputtered its last sputter somewhere in the middle of nowhere, the Commandos forwent the litany of moaning and bitching and complaining, gathered up their gear and their prize, and headed off into the blizzard, praying they were walking northeast. Needless to say, they were in some serious shit.<p>

The weather was downright obnoxious. Bucky was freezing his ass off but too damn cold to be pissed off about it. Being angry was just wasting heat and energy. At this point the Commandos were exhausted, battle-worn and fighting for every step. They were trudging, one foot after another, sticking close to each other because visibility was exceptionally poor and the terrain was even worse. They were running on empty, and they needed to find shelter fast because in an hour or two… Well, hopefully they would still be alive. They didn't have the survival gear or the supplies to make an extended march through these kinds of conditions. Thankfully, they hadn't encountered any HYDRA patrols so far. It was the only spot of brightness in a night that was as infinitely dark as it was icy.

As much as he would never,_ ever_ admit it, he was glad to be close to Steve as they walked. The snow was a good six inches deep and halfway up his shins, and Steve was cutting a path through it like nothing. Steve was also tall, unwavering as he blocked the wind, and he seemed to know exactly where he was going (although how he could tell one direction from another in this nearly pitch black, wintry misery was beyond Bucky). At least the wind wasn't constant, even though whenever it did pick up it cut right through Bucky's heavy wool coat and the layers under it like a sword. Steve didn't seem affected by it. Hell, Steve didn't even seem to _feel_ it. If it wasn't for the fact the rest of the team was shuffling with frozen limbs and frosted lungs, he probably would have walked the rest of the way to base by himself.

They got to the crest of a small hill. The snow was falling steadily, fast, an inch an hour or more. Bucky couldn't feel his toes. His breath was quick, shallow, a cloud of vapor from his mouth as he tried to catch his wind. "Steve," he said softly. Ahead, Steve stopped and turned to face his team. He watched as the rest of the Commandos fought their way up the hill, trying to keep their feet in Steve's tracks. "We gotta stop."

Steve sighed slowly, not so much in disappointment as in concern. "I think there's a town up ahead," he declared as the group reached him.

Jones hunched over again, bracing his hands on his knees. His coat was covered in snow. "How can you tell, Cap?" he asked breathlessly.

"Can smell the fireplaces," Steve answered. "Can you guys go a little further?"

"You kidding? I can walk all the way across Italy like this," Dugan said, adjusting the collar of his coat a little so that it was higher on his neck.

Morita grumbled, "Don't give him any ideas, you moron." It was a joke. Maybe. Dugan and Morita were always prickly around each other. They both had similar personalities: loud (though Dugan was louder), opinionated (Morita was more so and never even in the slightest bit ashamed to let you know _exactly_ what he thought), somewhat classless (but, then, which of their company wasn't?), and a tad obnoxious. They bickered continually like an old married couple (a vulgar, rude, somewhat violent old married couple), and it wore on everyone. But they were extremely loyal, even to each other. So the insult was thankfully and automatically attributed to crankiness and brushed aside.

"Captain, we're blind out here," Falsworth reminded. It was true, both literally and figuratively. If SSR hadn't swept these hills clean of the Nazis and HYDRA, they had no idea where the enemy was. They had no idea if this town or village or whatever was loyal to HYDRA or the Italian Socialist Republic. They couldn't allow that cipher to be retaken; breaking HYDRA's codes was essential to getting and then staying one step ahead of them. If they failed here, they would stay at a disadvantage, scrambling to keep up with whatever plot HYDRA was unfolding. And with the war effort here in Italy struggling as it was, they could hardly afford any more setbacks.

But this was a risk they had to take. Steve's eyes glazed like he was weighing the options, balancing the driving need to get to SSR and deliver the cipher (and figure out what the hell had gone wrong – where was their support?) against what they were physically capable of doing. And the chance of being captured or worse. Couldn't forget that. "We'll find some shelter. Wait this out and head on in the morning," Steve finally said.

Dernier looked concerned and muttered something in French. "Sir, if these people are against us…"

"I know. Last resort." Steve gave his squad a curt nod. "Let's go."

They went down the hill, skidding and stumbling. Jones staggered when his boot went into a hidden rut, but Dugan and Falsworth were there to steady him. Despite the exhaustion weighing upon his frozen limbs, Bucky made himself pay better attention to their surroundings. In the thick walls of descending snow, it was nearly impossible to discern fact from fiction, and a slight shift of the wind turned swirls of flakes and shadows into apparitions of men. For a few long minutes, Bucky started to wonder if Steve's serum-enhanced nose hadn't been lying to him because they kept walking and there was nothing but more snow across a hilly field that stretched on forever. Bucky wasn't afraid – it took _a lot_ to make him afraid nowadays – but he was pretty unsettled with the thought that this seemingly endless expanse of snow and shadow really was endless, that they could be trapped out here in this wintry cage by its boundlessness. But Steve was right, and pretty soon Bucky smelled the distinct aroma of burning wood, too. It was earthy, rich and heavy on the air, welcoming (though not so homey for him) and decidedly pleasant. They walked a little further, picking their way through a copse of wind-wrecked and snow-laden trees, before the first outlines of houses appeared ahead.

Steve gestured for the team to stop at the edge of the trees. They gladly did, Jones leaning against the thicker of the trunks, Dugan staying close to him. Dum Dum dropped the sack with the cipher in the snow, his face flushed red with exertion. Morita kept his gun at the ready despite how bent with fatigue he was, standing with Dernier and looking with unabashed hope toward those houses. Falsworth handed Steve his binoculars. Bucky waited on Steve's other side, also trying not to get excited that this could be their much-needed shelter. "What do you see, Rogers?" Falsworth asked after a beat.

"Not much," Steve quietly responded. He handed the binoculars back to the Brit. "No lights. No tracks in the snow. Town looks empty."

"Well, somebody's got a fire, so it can't be," Falsworth responded.

"Stay here. Sergeant Barnes and I will go check it out," Steve declared. "If it's clear, we'll come back for you. If not, get out of here."

Falsworth didn't look pleased, but he didn't question Steve. Maybe they were unlike most other units; they didn't fit into the command structure of the army very well because their missions were so dangerous and unusual, but mostly because their leader was Captain America. Already Steve was a hero and a legend among the troops, even among the officers. Being such a symbol of the war effort and the integrity of the nation made it difficult for the average colonel to dole out orders to him. And maybe he himself didn't give a whole lot of orders to his men or care much about how they conducted themselves (so long as it was moral), but when he did give orders, he wanted them followed. "How long shall I give you?"

Steve shrugged a little. "Well, if we're walking into a nest of HYDRA, I'll make sure it's obvious."

"That's damn comforting," Falsworth muttered.

Underneath all of his nobility and seriousness, Steve always had been (and always would be) something of a sneaky little shit. He had this streak in him that pretty much no one had ever known about except Bucky (was that an honor or a curse? He had never figured that out). So all he did was give Falsworth a dry grin. "Use your discretion."

"Be careful."

Bucky summoned up some energy from somewhere, checked his gear and made sure his gun was loaded, and followed Steve as he headed across the field. They moved fast now, running and leaping over obstructions and drifts. They were out in the open, and the snowfall was likely obscuring their approach, but they couldn't be sure of that. Thankfully, they reached the buildings unbothered. There was a stonewall surrounding the town and a gap in it right in front of them where a road that was buried in snow probably led inside. Bucky struggled to keep up, bounding and sprinting as fast as he could, and stood at Steve's side along the stone wall. Steve drew a handgun from his thigh holster and pulled his shield, inching around the edge of the wall. He glanced over his shoulder at Bucky, sharing a quick look that communicated what he planned with no words. Bucky followed him, getting his rifle up against his shoulder. Then Steve stepped into the road and ran into the town with Bucky covering.

No one shot at them. No one yelled at them or ordered them to stop. It was simultaneously encouraging and seemingly too good to be true. Most of the towns the Commandos had encountered in Switzerland and thus far in Italy had been friendly at least. More often than not these poor people ended up caught in the crossfire, their homes and supplies taken by HYDRA, and they were grateful to be liberated at best or ambivalent at worst. And they'd certainly come across villages razed or massacred by Schmidt's men; that was the worst, finding innocents slaughtered simply because they'd been in HYDRA's way, knowing that if their team had gotten there a day or sometimes even hours earlier they might have been able to prevent it. This place seemed abandoned, eerily quiet, the snow pristine and undisturbed along its streets. Steve stepped on light feet down the main thoroughfare, Bucky darting his sharp eyes from building to building. The town was little more than this main road, which was flanked by darkened shops and homes, and a cul-de-sac. Steve crept along, and when he was sufficiently certain they were safe, he signaled to Bucky and Bucky followed.

_Somebody's got to be here._ He moved quickly, silently, shifting his aim as they walked. Steve pressed his back to the stone exterior of one of the houses and knocked on its door. It probably risked discovery, but if they were alone, they could easily take any of these houses for shelter and supplies. Nobody answered. Steve glanced at Bucky, cocking an eyebrow, and knocked again. Bucky waited, looking around the cul-de-sac. A burst of wind shifted the curtains of flakes, and he caught sight of a cloud of gray beyond that was too dense to be snow. It was rising from the chimney of a house that was a little behind the cul-de-sac. The two soldiers shared a quick look before heading that way.

They reached the little house in short order. Although every moment that passed without an attack was a sign they were safe, Bucky couldn't let down his guard. Steve didn't either, pushing ahead with his shield on his arm and his gun held ready and his sharp eyes constantly scanning their surroundings. A wooden fence surrounded the house, dilapidated in some places. The building was more of a cottage, a tiny thing made of weathered stone. There was a barn behind it at the crest of another small hill that overlooked the village. Bucky ducked by the fence, aiming at the door and sighting down his scope as Steve sprinted up the walk. Steve paused by the wooden door before knocking.

It was still for a seeming eternity, but the door opened. It was dark inside, but the paltry amount of lantern light was enough to illuminate a slightly bent form. It seemed like an old man, and he was flanked by two young girls. Bucky was surprised, but he didn't change his aim or relax. Not yet. He could hear Steve's voice, but he was having a hard time discerning the words. Pretty soon he realized it was because Steve wasn't speaking English. _What the hell?_ Then Steve was gesturing toward him, and Bucky finally lowered his rifle. Somewhat begrudgingly he climbed to his feet, dusting the snow off his pants and the front of his coat, and jogged up the walk. He didn't lower his guard completely, however, not even when he saw exactly what it had seemed to be from the other end of the yard. An old farmer and children. And they were looking at Captain America with eyes as wide as saucers. As least the kids were. The man was staring at Steve with a mixture of terror and surprise. And Steve _was_ speaking Italian. Fluently. Bucky didn't know what he was saying, but the tone of his voice he recognized well enough to guess it was something along the lines of "it's okay" and "we're not going to hurt you". And Steve being so finely attuned to, well, pretty much _everything_ since the super soldier serum recognized that Bucky was antsy and concerned without Bucky having to say anything. He translated as the old man began to relax and explain. "He says there's no food. The Germans took it weeks ago. The Allies promised aid, but nothing's coming. There's no food anywhere." The man was looking increasingly agitated, like now that he'd realized Bucky and Steve meant no harm, he was desperate for help. "Everyone left because there was no choice. Stay here and starve and freeze to death, or try to get away before the weather got worse. They stayed because the girls' father was out trying to find supplies. He hasn't come back."

This was sounding increasingly bad. _No food. No supplies._ Bucky knew as well as anyone that the German line through central Italy was nigh impenetrable. Still, if the 107th and SSR was north of here, the supply line coming up from southern Italy should have been sustaining them (and hopefully innocents caught in the crossfire). Plus the US Fifth Army and the British Eighth Army were across the countryside west of here. Why hadn't supplies come this way? That nasty sense of foreboding that had been plaguing him tightened even further like a spring coiling inside his stomach. "Is this place safe?"

Steve translated the question to the old man, and he answered quickly. "Germans came through a few days ago again, but when they saw there was nothing to take, they moved on. He says his family hid in the barn."

"What do you think?" Steve looked at the poor people, dressed in dirty clothes and very clearly hungry and frightened. He asked the old man something, and the old man nodded. He went through some sort of explanation. "What's he sayin'?"

"Get the others. We'll bunk down here for the night, and assess the situation in the morning. We can't go any further with the weather like this," Steve said.

"Think it's safe to do that?"

Steve shrugged. "What do you think?"

Honestly, Bucky didn't know. "If HYDRA's tracking us…"

"I know." This would be an obvious place to stop and seek shelter given the conditions outside. Steve looked displeased. Back in the day, that was the face he'd worn when it was question of whether or not to pay the heating bill or put food on the table, or whether or not they should spend that extra few pennies for a treat when money was so goddamn tight. Or whether or not he should humor Bucky and put up with the girl who'd spend the entirety of their double date looking for a way out of a situation she didn't want to be in. The stakes were a little larger now. "The guys are beat. We need to rest, and we can't do that out in the hills or in the middle of the field with a blizzard beating down on us. Go get 'em, Buck."

Bucky watched the family again. Steve's concern, his desire to do _something_ to help them, was pretty potent. It always had been in situations like these, where he was faced with injustice or the like. It always would be. The world would be truly screwed, the war lost and evil victorious, the day Steve stopped trying to protect people. Staying here was not only advantageous to the Commandos. A night's sleep under the watch of Captain America was valuable.

"Alright," Bucky said. Steve turned and started talking softly to the family, likely asking their permission to use their home in exchange for the Commandos' protection and whatever supplies they could spare, extra water and rations and the like that the others were carrying. They were an invading force in enemy territory for God's sake, and this was what Steve was doing. And Bucky would bet anything that if that old guy said no, Steve would kindly shove off and find another way to get the Commandos to shelter.

But the old guy agreed, of course. It probably wasn't Steve's stature, the height and muscles and physical presence, that convinced him. And he probably didn't know a thing about the Howling Commandos and their mission or about Captain America and his heroism. All he needed to see was the honesty bright in Steve's eyes and the compassion strong in Steve's voice, and he was convinced of the mettle of the man before him. Bucky knew how that went. One look, and you were sold on anything Steve Rogers said, even if you knew it was just plum stupid and damn foolish.

* * *

><p>It didn't take long at all for Bucky to collect the rest of the Commandos. They, too, were leery of the empty village, but the promise of getting out the snow (which was getting worse with the wind picking up and the heavy clouds overhead content to just dump their contents) was too much to turn down. The family in the cottage was frightened of the soldiers filing into their small abode for a few minutes until it became obvious no one meant them any harm. Dugan and Falsworth helped Jones to a chair, where they promptly pulled out the field aid kit and applied more sulfa and a better bandaging job to his injury. The wound wasn't terribly serious, but it needed the care of a doctor when they got back to base. True to the old man's word, the cottage didn't have much in terms of food, only a few shriveled fruits and vegetables in addition to some dried meat that the family had obviously been saving. Pooling their rations with the house's stores produced a decent enough meal. The Commandos ate sparingly of the family's food, only enough to be polite since they had no wish to take what little the old man had. Now that the Italians had realized that the American soldiers were not there to harass or hurt them, they were eager to keep them there. They were protection against the Nazis and HYDRA. The girls offered up their beds as well (though none of the soldiers took them). They were desperate to be hospitable, and Steve kept insisting it wasn't necessary. For the time being, at least, the Commandos were staying put, and these folks needn't worry.<p>

The men bunked down in spare blankets. They doused the fire; nobody dared to let it burn, not with HYDRA crawling the hills surrounding them. They were left to shiver under all the coverings and coats they had, pressed together. Still, it was better than being outside. Falsworth and Dernier spoke passable Italian, at least enough to communicate with the old man and his granddaughters. Seeing that his men were comfortable enough and their hosts were well protected, Steve decided to trudge up to the barn. It would provide a decent vantage from which he could see all around the little village, so he could keep watch. Bucky argued. The others told the captain it wasn't necessary, that even HYDRA assholes would be crazy to be out patrolling in weather like this. Steve wasn't about to take the chance. So, with firm orders to rest, he headed off through the snow across the yard and up the hill behind the cottage.

Bucky let him go for about fifteen minutes. Then, once everyone was settled, he headed for the door. "Here," Falsworth said, handing him a folded up blanket. "Make sure he doesn't freeze. Bloody idiot."

Bucky smiled wearily. He took the blanket and headed out the door. He was immediately blasted with icy air, the snow driving into this face like needles. He shrugged deeper into his coat, pulling his hat down more firmly on his head. He kept his rifle at the ready as he marched up the hill, fighting through the mounting drifts, until he reached the barn. It was an old, wooden thing, made of warped boards, rusted nails, and holey thatching. The door was slightly ajar. "Don't shoot," Bucky quipped as he shoved it open a little wider so he could slide through. "It's just me."

Inside the barn it was dank and dirty and not at all well-kept. Bucky blinked the snow from his lashes and glanced around for a moment, taking in the unused farm equipment. Steve hopped down from the upper level. "Go back and get some sleep," he said.

"And leave you all the fun? Nah."

"I mean it, Buck. It's freezing out here, and–"

"The cold doesn't bother you so much anymore. I know. And you don't need much sleep anymore. _I know._ Just shut your trap and let me stay with you." Bucky pushed the door back shut, but the old thing was damn difficult to move with its rusted hinges. Steve was right there, maneuvering it one-handed. Bucky offered him up a withering look. "Thanks."

Steve flushed a little. "Sorry."

The two friends stood in silence for a long moment, the wind cutting through the slats in the barn, rattling the boards and nearly shaking the entire structure around them. Then Bucky dispensed with the bullshit and grabbed Steve and hauled him into half a hug. "Did you get hurt?"

"No. I'm fine," Steve said, slinging his shield onto his back and holstering his gun. Bucky wasn't entirely certain, taking a good look at Steve now that he had the chance. Even though the light was poor, years of pulling Steve out of fights and helping him through countless ailments had taught him all of the other's tells. Steve was pretty adept at hiding how badly hurt he really was; for being such a good person, he was a convincing liar (probably not because he was a liar, when Bucky really thought about it, but because he'd honestly convinced himself it didn't hurt so much or wasn't as serious as it looked). But he seemed okay now, standing tall and breathing easily, and Bucky didn't see signs of limping or blood or anything worse. Steve smiled wanly, not missing the inspection. "I said I'm fine."

Bucky punched him in the shoulder. Before that would have knocked ninety-pound Steve on his ass. Now the man in front of him didn't budge, an obstinate, _hard_ wall of muscle. "Got scared is all," he said, praying Steve didn't hear the tremor in his voice that was blatantly obvious to his own ears. "When that tank hit you. Scared the shit out of me."

"It's alright. It didn't even damage my shield."

"That damn thing is about as ridiculous as you are, you dumb asshole. Don't do stuff like that."

Steve's smile wasn't as bright as it normally was. "How 'bout you? You okay?"

"Sure." He turned away, staring malevolently out at the smear of snow. It was barely visible it was so dark. Suddenly his mood turned sour, like continuing to bottle up the last few days' worth of struggles and frustrations and worries was just impossible. He gritted his teeth. The last few days? Weeks. Months. In two months, it would be a year since he shipped off to London. A year that had simultaneously felt like no time at all and an eternity. He felt so much older, so different. And Steve was different, too. Those long winter days in Brooklyn, staring out at the snow and hating all of the problems it brought, seemed so far away now.

"Buck?"

"I really goddamn hate winter," he said lowly. "So tired of bein' cold."

"Yeah," Steve softly agreed at his side.

"You think we'll ever get to go someplace nice, Steve?" It was a dumb thing to ask. They weren't _ever_ going to get anywhere warm. They used to joke about it when they'd been freezing their rears off in their little apartment, burning old drawings and newspapers for warmth, huddling together under the one good blanket they had and their coats. Steve shivered so badly back then, his hands ice between Bucky's own as Bucky had tried in futility to rub some warmth back into them. They'd sit there all night, shaking too hard to sleep, talking about what it would be like to live in Florida. Or California. Or one of those Caribbean islands they'd seen in one of the geography books at school. So much sun. White sand and palm trees and so much heat that it went right into your bones and never left. Never cold again.

Somehow, those endless nights spent shivering in their shitty apartment seemed preferable to this. Freezing and fighting so far from home. Nightmares and dark things dancing on the corners of their minds. The weight of the war and everything they had to accomplish pushing them down into the ice.

But Steve was always an optimist. "Sure, we will," he said now just as he had then. "We'll get to base. It'll be warm there."

"Bullshit, and that's not what I had in mind."

"Gotta be practical," Steve said with a little smile. "Come on up here. Can see a little better."

They climbed back to the loft. The barn was open up there. The door through which the farmers had once lifted hay bales had been boarded up long ago but it wasn't good enough to block out the snow and wind. Steve worked fast; obviously he'd been attempting to cover more of the gap before Bucky had gotten there. Together they pushed old bales of musty hay over to it. When it was covered enough to keep the blizzard out but maintain a decent view of the hills surrounding the little village, Bucky sighed and unceremoniously sat down. Steve sat right beside him. "Water?"

Steve fished a canteen from his gear and Bucky took a long drink of it before handing it back. Steve did the same. Bucky grabbed the blanket and unfolded it and arranged it so that it covered them both. Steve pushed most of it back onto him, and he stubbornly pushed it back. This went on until Steve just gave up. Maybe he was bigger and stronger and faster than Bucky now, but Bucky was still more stubborn (and pretty proud of it). They moved close to each other. Steve wasn't shivering, at least not like he used to. It used to be so violent that Bucky could hardly stand it (or the worry it caused). Now Steve was the warm one, solid, a veritable furnace beside him all things considering. Bucky sagged into him. "Kinda like old times," Steve murmured.

Bucky grunted. "You're warmer now. Not any more comfortable, though." _And old times weren't that long ago._ "And since when do you know Italian?"

He felt Steve shrug. It was that same sheepish shrug Steve always had now when Bucky questioned his newfound abilities. "Picked it up over the last few days," he said, like that was a reasonable explanation.

"You picked it up," Bucky repeated incredulously. "Just like that."

"Yeah."

Steve was a tad ashamed, not because he just _learned an entire language_ like that but because it bothered Bucky. Truth be told, a lot of the changes in Steve bothered Bucky. There were a lot of questions to which he had no answers. He tried not to think about them, but it was pretty hard not to sometimes. What else could Steve do? And what if there were bad side-effects? Nothing _this good_ came without a price. What if they just hadn't seen them yet?

They were silent for a while. Bucky drifted. More questions, these maybe less profound but still troubling. How often had they done this in the past? How many winters had they spent like this, huddled up together for heat, sharing a solitary blanket? They were so far away and so different, but this at least was the same. The irony of the role reversal wasn't lost on him. He grunted again, picking through memories. What had they always talked about? "The girls on those islands… You know, the islands down south in the ocean. The tropical ones we used to talk about."

"What about 'em?"

"You think they wear swimsuits all year?"

Steve laughed. "No idea. Yes?"

"I wanna find out. When we finally get someplace warm, I want to see if they wear swimsuits all year long." Bucky closed his eyes, imagining long legs and curvy hips and silky hair and plump lips all made up and stained red. God, it had been a while since he'd really seen, much less held, a woman. At least not a woman in a hospital or wearing military dress or burdened by the war. He thought back to those carefree summer days, when he and Steve and sometimes a couple other guys from their neighborhood went down to the Boardwalk at Coney Island just to watch the girls in their summer frocks and swimsuits. Even that wasn't enough to cut through the chills wracking his form. No matter how he tried, he couldn't go back there. Not to the hot, salty air was summer, the taste of sweat on his upper lip, of cold soda pop and vanilla ice cream and cigarette smoke, of popcorn and cotton candy and freedom. So much of it. Their whole lives had been before them.

Their whole lives still were before them. It was just hard to remember that here.

"I'm worried, Buck," Steve admitted. Bucky turned to look at him. His eyes were narrowed, staring outside. "I'm worried about the battalion. About Phillips and Stark." _About Peggy._ He didn't say it, but it was more than obvious. Bucky watched Steve, felt the tension in his form, thought he could hear the fast pace of his pulse. "Didn't want to say it before in front of the others, but I am. Real worried."

"I'm sure it's fine," Bucky said, not because he actually was sure but because he wanted to comfort Steve somehow. That was what he did, what he still _could_ do. Tell Steve whatever he could to make it better. "They're all fine. We'll get there tomorrow, God willing, and deliver that cipher machine and find out everythin's great."

"Somethin's not right," Steve responded gravely.

Bucky couldn't argue with that. "Don't worry," he finally said after the returning silence became too pressing. "Worry does nothing. Waste of time."

Steve didn't answer right away. Then he sighed, turned, and regarded Bucky with familiar blue eyes and a shadow of his normal smile. "Sleep. I got this."

Bucky grunted. "You don't need to go it alone. You're not a one-man army."

Steve smirked. "Sure about that?"

_No._ But he didn't say that, and they didn't talk more after that. Steve watched out the holes in their make-shift barricade, keeping a protective eye on the cottage and village below and the field beyond. Bucky listened to the wind, lulled by its beat against the outside of the barn, lulled by Steve's soft breaths and his own calm heartbeat. Of course, he meant to stay awake. Steve would, all night if he needed to, and tomorrow he'd still be as sturdy and capable as ever. But Bucky wasn't so strong. And all he could feel was the one source of warmth and familiarity in this awful, wintry world right beside him, so he couldn't help but fall asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence, dramatized scenes of war)

**ABOVE AND BEYOND**

**2**

"_They were always like that, Bucky and Steve. When we were kids, they were inseparable. Steve was like a little brother to Bucky, and Bucky took care of Steve like he never took care of us. Not that we minded, you know, because Steve was a real nice boy and he so desperately needed it. My sisters, and my ma especially, always thought Steve was trying to prove something by pretending to be so much stronger than he actually was. Mostly I think Steve just wanted to return the favor to my brother. I never got to tell Steve because of the war, but I was really glad that he got that chance to be there for Bucky the way Bucky always was for him."  
><em>– Rebecca Barnes, 1961

_February 9__th__, 1944_

"Bucky? Buck?"

Waking up was far too much effort. "Go 'way."

"Fat chance of that. Get out of bed. You're gonna be late again."

He was too warm, too comfortable, and he frankly didn't give a damn. "Late for what?"

"Work."

"Ngh. Go to hell."

"Some thanks I get. You're the one who told me to make sure you get up."

"Leave me alone, Stevie."

"You stayed out too late. And you got drunk. I told you not to." Everything shook when a hand took his shoulder and rattled him hard. Steve's voice turned annoyed and sarcastic. "Come on, Barnes. Up and at 'em. It's a sunny day, and the world's a'waitin'." Bucky grumbled something and nuzzled deeper into his pillow. The fingers curled around the meat of his shoulder got even more insistent, and the tone became downright angry. "Come on. Get up. I mean it. I gotta go. Can't wait around for you to haul your lazy ass out of bed."

Bucky turned over. Steve looked down on him, dressed in his dusty apron for stocking the grocers down the street, a thin, pale face and taut frown and floppy blond hair and annoyed blue eyes. Bucky considered flipping Steve the bird, but even that was too much for him to manage. He hurt and he was tired and his bed was soft and warm beneath him. He couldn't really remember the night before (which probably meant Steve was right; he'd stayed out too late and had had too much to drink). That was a good thing, because thinking was too much effort. So he went back to sleep. For a second or two. "Bucky, wake up. Bucky."

Bucky blinked blearily. It was Steve again, but not the same Steve. A more filled out version of the same face. A stronger, healthier version, with dirty blond hair uncharacteristically askew and eyes filled with urgency. "Bucky!"

The minute the warm support was gone from Bucky's back, he jerked awake. "…the hell?" Apparently that hadn't been his bed. And apparently this wasn't their apartment back in Brooklyn. No, this was a frozen barn somewhere in the Italian countryside in the middle of a goddamn war.

"Sorry." Steve's voice was quiet, concerned, and that immediately slashed through the haze of sleep still clinging to Bucky's mind. He knuckled his eyes, dismissing the disorientation of dreams and memory, and scrambled without a shred of grace on his hands and knees to Steve's side by the hole in the barn they'd plugged with hay the night before.

And his heart plummeted into his stomach. "Aw, shit."

The first light of the new day was poking through the gray and lavender clouds, washing over the snow laden field in a display that would have almost been pretty were it not for the line of HYDRA troops crawling out of the copse of trees. They were black, spider-like from this distance, and over three dozen strong. They were moving fast, armed to the teeth and obviously not concerned about meeting resistance. Behind them was another armored vehicle, not quite a tank but definitely more than a truck. "Shit," Bucky breathed again.

"Give me cover," Steve ordered. He buckled his gear back on and his helmet in place. His shield he slid onto his back and his gun was readied in its holster with just a sweep of his hand. He was already crossing the distance of the loft in two huge strides and jumping down. "Gonna get the others."

"Steve–"

But it was too late. Steve was already gone. Bucky cursed again, grabbing his rifle and poking a larger hole in the wall of old hay so that he could stick the barrel through it. He lay on his belly, quickly falling into position and concentrating on providing Steve with some protection. A breath later Steve was charging down the hill toward the cottage, not daring for a second to vocally alert the rest of the Commandos. He was probably entertaining some sort of vague hope that the HYDRA goons would realize they'd picked this town over before and just pass by. Foolish and completely baseless. They were coming straight for them with determination in their march.

Once Steve was safely inside the cottage, Bucky had nothing to do but wait again. He kept his gaze moving between the line of HYDRA soldiers trudging across the field and the cottage where the rest of his team was hopefully preparing for the fight that was coming. Through the snow-streaked rear windows of the little house, he caught sight of Steve's shield on his back as he moved through the dwelling, rousing the Commandos. _Get up,_ Bucky thought with mounting desperation. This position was defensible, but their supplies were limited. Another skirmish would cost more ammunition, more munitions, more time and energy. It might be better to run. _Probably not._ Where could they run to? There were fields and hills of snow for dozens of miles in any direction. As alluring as the thought might be, there wasn't going to be an easy escape. _Better to fight. Damn it._

That was obviously Steve's conclusion as well. The Commandos were running out of the house in a matter of seconds, as battle-tested and experienced as they were. Bucky watched Dugan and Falsworth sprint down to the cul-de-sac. Dernier and Jones followed, the latter struggling a little with his gun. Morita was out after them, and Steve was last, sparing a moment to plead with the old man and his granddaughters to take shelter in all likelihood. Once he was outside, he ran effortlessly through the snow. He offered a few curt gestures to the team, and they dispersed through the town, taking hidden positions behind buildings in preparation for an attack. Steve glanced over his shoulder directly at Bucky, and that was all he needed to do. Bucky shifted his sights back to the HYDRA troops. The minute they were in range of the rest of the Commandos, he would open fire.

Hopefully he could thin them out before they realized where the Commandos were and attacked. Hopefully.

He should really have learned to know better by now. A bolt of blue lightning fired from truck behind the line of soldiers that was crossing the field. It hit the top of one of the buildings, disintegrating it completely. Bucky didn't let that deter him. He squeezed off a shot. Even at this range, he took out the man wielding the canon of a gun. He moved fast, firing again and again to whittle down the advance. He knew he only had a few seconds before they determined where he was, and when they did, he would be easy picking. The barn would provide no protection at all, as flimsy as it was, and it was a blatant target alone atop the hill. But he had to hold his position, so he fired again. And again. "Bucky!" Steve cried. Another of the soldiers climbed behind the HYDRA gun. Blue blasts were raining down on them now, careening from the line of enemies, hitting the wall and weakening it. Those smaller guns couldn't reach him at his distance. But that larger one… Over the cacophony of gunfire, he heard Steve shout at him again. "Bucky, get out of there!"

The gun powered up. There was no more time. "Damn it," Bucky hissed as he scrambled down from the loft. He hit the floor of the barn not a moment too soon. The top exploded, a great deal of it just vanishing like it hadn't been there at all, and the remains collapsing inward without any support like the entire structure was imploding. He covered his head as wood and hay and thatching came down on him. Thankfully it wasn't much rubble (or very heavy), and aside from a few nasty scrapes and bumps, he was able to push himself free of it without too much trouble.

It helped that there was a grime-covered hand reaching down to grab him and haul him to his feet, too. "No rest for the weary," Dum Dum commented without a hint of mirth in his voice. Bucky didn't bother to respond to the quip, ducking down and pulling Dugan with him as the truck in the field beyond took another shot at the barn. The rear of the structure was completely obliterated. The two Commandos hardly waited for the wreckage to settle, charging down the small hill to find some cover. By now the HYDRA soldiers were at the wall. The Commandos fired at the gate, creating a bottle neck of sorts. Bucky skidded to his knees at the corner of one of the buildings lining the main road, picking off one of the soldiers who'd been dumb enough to stop to reload when he was somewhat exposed. While he reloaded, he heard the deafening bang of Dum Dum's shotgun above him. "They ain't getting through," the other man declared.

Bucky heard the thunder of that gun going off repeatedly and knew the Commandos' chances of stopping that were miserably small. They'd faced weapons like that cannon before. They were highly powered and difficult to stop. The truck punched a hole in the wall adjacent to the main gate. Bucky saw Falsworth shift his aim and Morita toss a grenade through the new gap. It exploded outside, a few men screaming as it did. Bucky peered back around the corner only to see that truck blast another section of the wall and another. It was effectively rendering their defenses null. Maybe that was okay. They'd thinned their ranks some, and if these HYDRA bastards wanted combat in close-quarters, they'd have to go up against Captain America.

Sure enough, the moment the HYDRA soldiers stepped through the smoldering remains of the village wall, Steve was there. He charged, ramming his shield into the men trying to breach the wall. He hit them hard enough that they were physically flung back into field. Steve moved like lightning, fists flying into the men trying to get past him. Bullets clanked against his shield. The other Commandos fired into the fray with expert aim, avoiding hitting their leader while they took down the incoming soldiers. For a second, this seemed almost tenable, Steve keeping most of the enemy outside the wall and the Commandos killing those that got past him.

But the second didn't last. They never did. The truck's gun roared, blowing up a huge portion of the wall. Steve was thrown from his feet, bombarded with chunks of stone. The truck burst through the demolished wall, its engine roaring and its thick tires crunching. "Goddamn it," Bucky snarled. He couldn't see Steve with the flood of HYDRA stampeding the village's entrance. Their only hope now was to move fast enough to kill these bastards before they were overrun. Bucky sprinted closer, trying to find a better vantage, bullets slamming into the snow at his feet. He threw himself behind the corner of another building. The truck had tracked his movements, cutting a swath into the ground behind him that continued into the stone structure. A huge chunk of the side of it was just vaporized. Bucky rolled, bringing his rifle to bear, and shot the man behind the gun right between the eyes. The cannon immediately went silent.

Unfortunately, that wasn't the only problem they had. The few HYDRA soldiers who had smaller versions of the same gun were firing, and energy was whizzing through the air, disintegrating everything it touched. Falsworth cried, "Take them out! Take them out!" Bucky could barely see Jones and Dernier, back to back as they traded shots and cover. Jones' Thompson was firing rapidly, laying down a suppressing spray so the Commandos could reinforce their positions in the village. With the more and more of the buildings damaged, adequate cover was disappearing rapidly. A couple of the HYDRA soldiers ran past where Dugan was hiding, and the big man moved with speed and alacrity that was completely unlike him. He grabbed one about the neck and smashed him into the smoldering remains of the building behind them. He spun, smacking the gun from the second guy's hand before blasting the third with his shotgun. Morita was further down the road. He waited for a lull in the fire before lobbing another grenade into the throng of men pouring into the village. The explosion was loud, killing the few Germans unfortunate enough to be caught in it. But they were still outnumbered four to one.

Steve was back. Bucky noticed he was favoring his right side a little. It didn't slow him down at all, but Bucky still gritted his teeth in anger. He growled, reloading his rifle again to shoot at the assholes trying to take down his friend. There and again, the sight of Captain America on the battlefield drew the attention of all the HYDRA soldiers present. Steve was like a goddamn beacon, and they all went at him, abandoning pushing deeper into the small village's cul-de-sac to unload their weapons at Steve. What a badge of honor it would probably be to these bastards to be the one who was lucky enough to kill Captain America. Bucky was going to make damn sure that didn't happen. The driver of the truck turned sharply. The new man behind the gun was screaming at his buddies and readjusting his aim. Bucky wasted no time in putting a bullet into the Nazi's back. He slumped with a cry. The other Commandos took the enemy's moment of distraction to pummel the truck, but most of their shots ricocheted off the armor that covered its high sides and back. These lighter armored vehicles of HYDRA's weren't as difficult to destroy as the tank they'd faced last night; if they shot that plating enough, they would eventually break through. But it was a waste of ammunition, and if Bucky's quick mental estimation was correct, they were going to be running low in short order.

The HYDRA soldiers were fairly well clumped in the center of the small cul-de-sac now. They were flustered and couldn't seem to get a grasp on where their opponents were. The Commandos were moving targets, and Bucky and the rest of them had quickly learned that HYDRA didn't deal well with thinking on their feet. Schmidt might have been a crackpot genius (a madman, really) and Zola was no less, but their loyal followers were just that: followers. The guerilla tactics of the Commandos threw them for a loop, and in between dealing with Steve's brute strength and speed (and the not so subtle fact they were intimidated by him) and the Commandos darting around them and slowly but effectively picking them off, it significantly leveled the playing field. Bucky backed up, pausing to unload his rifle a few times. One shot hit, but he was forced to duck while shooting again and those bullets went wild. He growled in mounting frustration. Morita threw what was likely the last of their grenades into the throng of men, and those close enough to be caught in the explosion fell back dead. A bullet clipped him in the leg, and he tumbled down with a cry. Dernier was there to pull him to safety, Dugan standing out in front and firing his Winchester until it was empty. He looked worried, crouching to avoid return fire as he shouldered his shotgun and pulled a handgun from his belt. They'd thinned the HYDRA company by two-thirds, but there were still too many soldiers left and they were rapidly running out of ammo and options.

Ahead, the truck abandoned trying to destroy Captain America and instead decided to simply destroy everything else. It was almost an act of sheer frustration and desperation, pulverizing the surrounding buildings to get at the Commandos still darting among them and inside them for protection. And of course the man aiming the gun turned it toward the cottage with the old man and his two granddaughters. _Shit._

There was no time to do anything to stop it. The blast of blue destroyed the left half of the small house in a blink. Bucky fumbled to reload his rifle, and when he couldn't do that fast enough, he drew his handgun instead. There were too many soldiers between him and the guy on the truck bed to kill him. Through the smoke, dust, and ash wafting through the air, Bucky caught sight of the old man trying to usher the girls from the wreckage. At least they were still alive, but they wouldn't be for long if that gun fired again.

"Dugan! Jones!" Steve's cry came from the other side of the cul-de-sac. Bucky grabbed one of the HYDRA goons coming at him and tossed him, but not before yanking the gun from his hand. He fired the rifle at the men attempting to swarm Steve. "Dum Dum! Get them out of here! _Get them out of here!_"

Dum Dum broke off, Gabe following him, and ran up the slight incline to the cottage. Steve was shoved back, the majority of the remaining soldiers on him. Bucky desperately wanted to get over to Steve's side and help him, but that wasn't what Steve wanted and he damn well knew it. So he spent the precious few bullets he had trying to shoot the man wielding the cannon. With the chaos all around him, it was hard to get a clear shot. He caught the man in his shoulder, but it wasn't enough to bring him down. He heard Steve cry out and then give a yell of effort, and Bucky caught a glimpse of men flying off Steve's form. There were guns cracking and bayonets flashing. Falsworth was there, his face a cold picture of wrath as he fought his way to Steve's flank and kept the men back while Steve got to his feet. Bucky glanced their way repeatedly, saw Steve pull something from his side with a splatter of red to the snow beneath them. Then Steve was turning, trying to see toward the cottage, trying to find out if those innocent people were safe. The guy behind the gun actually sneered and fired again.

It took two gigantic steps and a huge jump for Steve to grab the long barrel of the cannon and twist. The momentum of his leap pulled the entire truck sharply to the left, the controls of the gun smacking into the face of the man operating it. He slumped down, knocking the triggers, and the thing kept firing even as the truck veered. "Get down!" Falsworth screamed, but Bucky didn't need the warning. The blue bolt of the gun cut along the cul-de-sac, hitting the rest of the HYDRA soldiers in a wild show of light and exploding bodies. The man surrounding them just disappeared, their hoarse, alarmed screams abruptly ending as the gun made its wide, uncontrolled arc. Bucky couldn't help but wince as he struggled to lay as low as possible in the mud and snow, burying his face in the white and praying (he was praying _a lot _lately) that he lived through this. The HYDRA gun cut down their enemies in one horrific second.

When the barrel passed over his position, Bucky dared to look. The driver of the truck was frantically attempting to regain control of the vehicle, but it was too late. The whole of it was teetering, tires spinning uselessly in the snow as Steve's weight and inertia spun it. The cannon and the truck beneath it hit the ground, the weapon firing still and digging down into the earth. Bucky heard himself scream Steve's name, fearing for a horrendous moment that Steve had been in between the barrel and the blast, but he saw Steve's shield, driving down into the barrel where it met the rest of the gun repeatedly. The energy reflected off the shield as he cut the barrel clean away and then smashed into the innards, and the gun went dead.

Everything was silent. Bucky and Falsworth slowly climbed to their feet. Dugan and Jones had the family behind them, safe from harm. Dernier was helping Morita limp closer from behind one of the buildings still standing. And Steve sagged a little into the wreckage of the truck. He was actually winded, his face pained and glistening with sweat. He was climbing down from the side of it when the passenger door slammed upward and open. A crazed HYDRA soldier hauled himself up and out, swinging a pistol around violently toward Steve. Bucky moved faster, though, whipping his handgun up and emptying it. Falsworth did the same. And Morita. The man fell back dead, pumped full of lead, his upper half slumping over the side of the tipped car.

Steve looked back, dazed and surprised. For an endless moment he seemed to waver, and suddenly all Bucky could see was that scrawny kid shocked to have survived a fight he should have lost. The hard, calm visage of Captain America returned in a flash, and Steve pushed himself off the truck and to his full height. "We need to move. I want an inventory of what we have for supplies. Munitions. Medical. Everything. Take what you can from the dead." He was relaying orders so quickly that it threw the rest of the team for a loop. Bucky noticed a small falter in his step as he strode toward Morita where he was leaning against Jacques. "You gonna be alright?"

"Tough as nails," Jim answered, holding a hand over where he was bleeding.

"We can dress it, Captain," Jacques declared sloppily, out of breath himself. His face was bruised. "Can do it fast."

"Do it right," Steve said in a softer tone. He turned to the old grandfather and the girls. He asked them something in Italian, to which the man responded worriedly. He clutched the children tightly to his sides, a huge, weather hand on either head. "They're not hurt," Steve announced after a moment.

"Cap, we can't walk to base," Morita declared, wincing as Dernier and Falsworth start working on his leg. "And we can't stay here."

"Obviously these damn hills are full of HYDRA," Dugan rumbled. His face was nearly black with soot. "We'll be like sitting ducks if we go out in the fields. There's no cover!"

Bucky knew they were right. If they were to run, they'd be easy targets. Clearly HYDRA knew enough of where they were to track them, so wandering around trying to navigate toward the main SSR base was crazy. "How far is it?" he asked, looking back at Morita.

Morita shook his head grimly. "On foot? We'd never make it. If we could find a truck or a car – something, I dunno… Three hours. If we could find one."

Steve shared a concerned look with Bucky. His eyes narrowed; Bucky knew that pensive expression, the glint of determination, the tightening of his jaw. Steve turned, and as he did, red glistened wetly on his side in the morning sun. Bucky gritted his teeth in anger, but he didn't dare mention it now. Steve was talking to the old man again. Bucky recognized the question as one Steve had asked last night. Something about a car. A truck. Probably if the man knew of one here or in the surrounding area. His supposition was correct. "He says there's a truck down the pasture. Another barn's there. It doesn't start."

"How far?" Morita asked.

Steve translated the question. "A mile."

Morita didn't look pleased, but he wasn't bullshitting before. Tough as nails. "Let's go."

"No," Steve said quickly. "No. Get your leg fixed up. Dum Dum, Gabe, we need this area secured. Fall back to a safer position, maybe a cellar if you can find one. If there's more HYDRA out in those hills, they'll probably be on their way here. Where's the cipher?"

"On the side of the house that didn't get blown to hell," Gabe answered. "Luckily."

Steve nodded. "Get it, and get everyone back. Bucky and I will go look for the truck. If it's salvageable, we're leaving. If not…" Steve glanced among them. "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it." He gave Morita an apologetic look. "I can carry you out there."

"Oh, hell, no." Morita scrunched his face up in indignant disapproval. "No. You're not carrying me like a broad or something. No, no, no."

Dugan grunted something like a laugh, but it felt forced. They were all shaken with the danger in which they'd found themselves, the long odds and difficult road ahead. Steve shook his head. "Pray that the truck's workin'. Come on, Buck."

No one seemed happy with the plan, but there wasn't a better one, so Bucky did nothing but pull a loaded rifle and handgun off one of the bodies strewn about him before securing his gear and running after Steve out into the fields.

* * *

><p>It was probably a minor miracle they found this other barn, let alone made it there without getting attacked. Every second they spent running across the snow-laden pasture was torturous. Bucky felt naked, exposed, paranoid like there were eyes and ears tracing their every step even though there was <em>nothing<em> but white as far as he could see. The morning light was pale and weak, slicing through slate-gray clouds still threatening snow, and the world was silent save for his pounding heart, the whoosh of air from his lungs, and the crunch of snow under his boots. The quiet was not comforting.

Needless to say when the barn appeared down a little hill, he was infinitely relieved. He couldn't help a touch of a smile. "You know, back in London when I said…" God, he could hardly catch his breath. "When I said I'd follow that little guy from Brooklyn, I shoulda… shoulda known better."

Steve grunted. He still wasn't terribly exerted by the effort spent running through snow this deep, but Bucky knew him well enough to see he was struggling more than he had been. He'd said nothing about the wounds Bucky knew he had. Bucky still wasn't going to push him about it. Not until they were out of this mess. Frankly, the only reason they'd won that battle had been Captain America. And if Captain America wanted to pull some ridiculously stupid shit about how okay he was when he clearly wasn't, Bucky wasn't going to stop him. Still, he was so preoccupied with watching Steve for signs of how badly hurt he actually was that he wasn't paying attention to where he was going, and he stepped into a hole. He nearly twisted his ankle and went face-first into the snow, but Steve caught him by the shoulder of his jacket and lifted him (_lifted _him) back onto his feet. "I did promise you the jaws of death, didn't I?" Steve said with a shit-eating grin. "You know me. I don't make promises I can't keep."

"Always so honest. Like a regular George Washington with his apple tree."

"It was a cherry tree."

"Whatever. Of course you would know that."

"Everyone knows that." Steve's smile softened. His hand ghosted over his side momentarily, and he looked like he wanted to hunch over and rest. But he didn't. "It's not bad, Buck," he said tightly. "And we don't have time. So don't worry about me."

"The day hell looks like this–" Bucky tipped his head toward the frozen wasteland spreading around them as far as the eye could see. "–is the day I stop worryin' about you."

Steve blinked at that, like he couldn't understand it. Like he couldn't understand how anyone could think he was special enough for this. For Project: Rebirth and becoming Captain America. For being Bucky's friend, his best friend. Bucky could have had others, but he'd only ever had Steve. People had thought he was crazy, his own ma and pa included, because Bucky had been a looker and a charmer. He'd been strong since the day he was born, a youth blessed with boundless smarts and athleticism, and he could have been popular if he hadn't had Steve with him all the time. Steve had been a social pariah of sorts. Everyone's favorite whipping boy. Small and sick and weak and easy pickings for the bullies. But when Bucky was with him (and Bucky had always been with him: on the schoolyard and playground and streets, in church and at the cinema and ballgame, _everywhere all the time_) people let him be. And if one of the other acquaintances in their lives had ever even so much as looked down his nose at little Steve Rogers, Bucky had sent the kid packing. Dames, too. Anyone giving Steve a hard time had never been in Bucky's good graces. Even back then, Steve hadn't been comfortable with it. Bucky's attention. Bucky's protection and affection. Bucky insisting he stay over at his folks' when it was cold, insisting he take the bed, insisting he had the biggest portions of whatever meal his ma had scraped together. Bucky's family, despite its size, had always been better off than Steve's. Steve's mother had done the best she could, but between Steve's health issues and losing her husband, her best had never been enough.

Still, Steve hadn't ever been comfortable with the charity. With anyone thinking he _needed _help, even when he clearly had. Even when his life had depended on it. It had always been a delicate balancing act of sorts, Bucky giving all he could without letting Steve know it. Without damaging Steve's pride. Like the time he offered up six months of pay in advance to help Steve's mother afford the medicine he'd needed for the pneumonia that had nearly killed him (pneumonia that came on the tail end of scarlet fever that came after a winter of unending disease). Or the times he'd walked Steve to work every day twenty minutes out of his way because the bullies had been preying on him. Or the time he'd scrimped and saved for months just to buy them both tickets to Ebbets Field because Steve deserved a good birthday for once. Or the coats he'd given up and the days he'd skipped school to keep Steve company when he'd been sick and the nights he'd canceled dates to sit with Steve while his mother had been dying. Steve had never considered himself worthy of that. And it wasn't that he thought lowly of himself or that he was some sort of martyr. He just wanted to do the right thing, and the right thing didn't include being a burden on anyone else, let alone on anyone about whom he cared.

So Steve didn't get how Bucky felt, that he hadn't then, wasn't now, or ever would be a burden. Trouble, yes. A ridiculous amount of trouble. But a burden? Never. Steve grinned disarmingly. "Trust me when I tell you that I can take it."

_You always say that. And I know you can. That's the problem. That's the whole damn problem._ Bucky didn't know how to tell Steve that as bad as it had been, it was worse now, worse because Steve could _give_ so much more than he could prior to the war. Before Bucky had always had this hope: help Steve find his place in the world, safe in art school or college or _anywhere_ where he could put his brains and heart to good use, and he'd be fine. Now Steve had gotten exactly what he'd always wanted with this chance to serve his country, and a part of Bucky hated it and hated the red he saw painting Steve's side and dripping down into the snow and damn well wanted to say it. He used to just say it. He used to have no trouble telling Steve _exactly_ what he thought. But, again, that was the old Steve who he had protected and picked up off the ground and carried through the worst of poverty and sickness and loss. This was the new Steve who _didn't need him like that._ This new Steve took the hits, really took them, and they didn't knock him down anymore. So it wasn't Bucky's place to fret like his little sister Rebecca used to accuse him of doing. It wasn't his place to fight Steve's battles or wrap up his bruises or tell him it would be okay anymore.

He must have been staring because Steve clasped him on the shoulder and shook him a little. He was oblivious. He always was. He never realized how much he scared Bucky. "Some place warm, right? When we're done with this." He gave that dopey grin of his. "For now let's go find that truck and pray it works."

Bucky was too shaken and deep into his own thoughts to argue, and they continued down the hill to the barn. Steve left Bucky alongside a well-kept fence to keep an eye out while he went searching for the truck. He didn't have to go very far to find it. It was on the other side of the barn, pretty well buried in the snow. Steve gestured Bucky over, and together they appraised it. "Looks like it's been here a few weeks," Steve surmised unhappily.

"Yeah," Bucky agreed. He used the sleeve of his coat to brush the pile of snow off the hood and windshield. It was dark green, fairly new. Obviously this farm had been more lucrative than the others of the area. The house further along the way was larger and in much better shape than most of the rest of the little village. The barn even had tools inside. Everything looked simply abandoned. Bucky scrutinized the situation a moment. "Think you can push it inside?" Steve gave a tiny hint of smug smile. Bucky rolled his eyes and shouldered his rifle. "Do it then, you jerk."

The snow had blown into the barn because the doors had been left open, but it hadn't infiltrated very deeply. Steve was able to push the car inside. Bucky was quick to assess the situation, looking inside the car. Everything was saturated with cold. "Old man was right. It's not gonna start. No keys," he declared after searching thoroughly. He checked the fuel tank. "There's gas." He came around to the front. "Wanna get the hood open? Preferably without ripping it off."

Steve gave a sarcastic laugh and did as Bucky asked. The two of them looked over the engine. "Where's Stark when you need him," Steve said on a long breath.

"Don't know, and it doesn't matter, because we don't need him," Bucky said, slamming the hood back down with a rattle, creak, and bang. "I got this."

Steve cocked an incredulous eyebrow. "You got this," he deadpanned.

"Sure do," Bucky said just as smugly as Steve had before, sliding into the driver's seat behind the wheel like he was just going to turn an imaginary key. He fumbled inside for a moment. "Give me a screwdriver." Steve just stood there, staring at Bucky like he'd sprouted an additional head or something. "What?"

Steve shrugged and headed off to find some tools. Bucky fiddled with the car's controls for a moment, waiting for Steve to return. Steve did, handing him a few different options for a screwdriver. He selected one and went to work. "You're starin'."

"Just never knew you were a mechanic."

"There are some things you might not know about me."

"Oh, yeah?" Steve folded his arms across his chest and set his jaw with certainty. "Try me."

Bucky went back to work. Honestly, he wasn't sure he wanted to tell Steve about this. It had been a couple of years before he'd shipped off, when he'd been working down at the docks for some extra cash while he and Steve tried to take some college classes. The guys down there had been… not entirely reputable. Steve probably wouldn't have approved of Bucky consorting with them. Hell, Bucky himself had hardly approved. But he had learned quite a few things from them, useful if not entirely lawful things. How to steal a car included. Not that he'd ever done it before.

Actually, as the minutes wore on and fattened with discomfort, Bucky started to realize there were probably quite a few things Steve didn't know about him now. Just in the six months they'd been apart from each, they'd both changed so drastically. Steve into Captain America, and Bucky into… he didn't know what. Whatever those HYDRA bastards had been trying to turn him into. He didn't feel like himself sometimes. Like he was uncomfortable, crawling in his own skin. Like there was some kind of… _darkness_ inside him that hadn't been there before. Something didn't feel right. It was a niggling thing, a splinter in his mind that exploded into nightmares and terrors when he slept. He didn't think Steve was aware of how deep the damage ran. He figured he probably hadn't even admitted it to himself. Being around Steve grounded him in ways he didn't think Steve realized. He kept telling himself he should just go to Steve with his troubles, but it didn't seem right. Not with everything happening. And frankly he didn't want Steve to worry about him. _We're a fine pair of idiots._

"You alright?"

Steve's quiet question broke through the haze of his thoughts. "Yeah. Yeah. Just gettin' maudlin."

"About what?"

Bucky glanced at Steve from beneath the steering wheel. "What else? Home." That lie always worked. Tried and true.

This time was no exception. "It ain't any warmer there this time of year, Buck," Steve said. Steve always did such a good job hiding the accent around the others, around the brass and the media and everyone else, but around Bucky, it slipped out. So did his unerring optimism. "Home doesn't meet your requirements of it being warm. Or tropical. Or girls in swimsuits." Bucky smiled. "So there's no sense in gettin' maudlin."

"You're an idiot." He finally connected the right parts and wires, and, despite their streak of bad luck and the fact the truck had been sitting in the freezing cold for weeks, the engine started.

Steve smiled broadly. "And you're a genius, apparently." He patted the rumbling hood. "And you saved me from listening to Jim complain while I carried his sorry rump out here."

Bucky couldn't help but beam a little at the accomplishment, even with the bad situation and the worry still pressing them down. "You can owe me." He closed the driver's door, gripping the steering wheel. "Grab extra gas if there's some."

Steve did that, moving the drum into the flatbed of the truck before sliding into the passenger's side. He looked ridiculously large because the cab of the truck wasn't very big. He shook his head, a bit flummoxed and awestruck at Bucky's job at rigging the starter. "You're right. I have no idea where you learned this."

"Told you."

"You'll have to teach me someday."

Bucky grinned with a touch of mischievousness. "You want me to teach Captain America how to steal a car?"

Steve winced a little, genuinely ashamed. "We're borrowing it."

"Bull, Stevie. This is theft. _Stealing._" He could never abandon an opportunity to tease Steve. Not even here. And he couldn't help but be a little proud of himself as Steve grimaced deeper at the thought of breaking the law. "Do you think they'll toss the Star-Spangled Man with a Plan in the clink for swiping a car?"

"Shut up."

Bucky chuckled at Steve's embarrassment over the slogan and shifted the truck into drive. For an awful minute, the engine sputtered, and they both wondered if they were prematurely relieved at their triumph. But the truck kept on, and they puttered out into the snow.

"We could leave a note," Steve offered as he rolled down the window to wipe more snow off the windshield. He said it with just enough sincerity that it wasn't entirely a joke.

Bucky looked at him, flabbergasted. "You want to leave an apology note in the middle of a warzone?" Steve had the decency to blush at how stupid that sounded. Bucky rolled his eyes. He stepped on the gas and slogged out onto the road that would hopefully take them back to the village. "Congratulations, George Washington. You just chopped down your first apple tree."

"Cherry."

"Whatever."

* * *

><p>Fifteen minutes later they were back with the others. Their relieved expressions (once they realized the rumbling truck coming down the way was their CO and not the enemy) were almost comical. Bucky pulled the truck into the cul-de-sac, avoiding the debris and the dead as much as possible, and the rest of the Commandos were there with their supplies. Sacks full of guns and ammo taken off the dead HYDRA soldiers. Their own packs. The canvas bag with the cipher machine. Dernier and Falsworth helped Morita limp up and into the back of the flatbed. Jones and Dugan secured their gear. And Steve tried to convince the family to come with them.<p>

He stood at the small walk that led up to the remains of their house, speaking in quiet, hushed tones with the old man. Even if Bucky had an understanding of Italian, they were talking so rapidly that he probably still wouldn't be able to follow. Falsworth was faring better. "The captain is telling them they have no chance of survival here. He can't guarantee any aid will be coming." Bucky cocked his head at the Brit's explanation, resting his rifle across his chest. It was starting to snow again, a lazy, almost pretty thing if not for the fact it likely portended another long day struggling against a storm. The flurry of flakes danced across his nose, and he shifted his weight uneasily. Hanging around a battle site as outnumbered as they were wasn't wise. They really didn't have any more time to spare now that they had a ride and were loaded up and ready to go. Falsworth shook his head. "The grandfather is insisting they stay and wait for the girls' father."

"That's crazy," Bucky remarked in annoyance. "And stupid."

Falsworth shrugged. His maroon beret was quickly becoming coated in white. "Rescuing civilians would be much simpler if we didn't have to deal with them afterward." That sounded cold and callous, but it was somewhat true. Civilians made things complicated. And there were frankly so many spread across Italy and France and Germany. So many people caught up in this war that shouldn't be. It wasn't right to ignore their distress or force them from their homes. Furthermore, it didn't feel right to just leave them afterward, surrounded with death and despair and destruction. Steve had the patience of a saint; he always had, even when they were kids. So even as the rest of them got irritated and flustered, he stayed calm, trying to argue the merits of the family leaving behind their destroyed home and coming with the Commandos to the SSR base. He was desperately but gently trying to coax them into seeing reason. They had no hope here, with hardly any food or supplies, with the weather as awful as it was and HYDRA probably still roaming the hills around them. Staying was a death sentence.

But Steve was also stubborn to a fault and blinded by his own morals sometimes. It was obvious to Bucky that the old man had no intention of leaving, the obstinate fool. Eventually Steve realized that, too, and when he did, his shoulders slumped. And they slumped even more when the older of the two girls came with a sack loaded with everything the family could spare. "No," he said firmly, shaking his head and raising his hand to stop her. "No. You guys didn't take anything, did you?"

"They keep offering," Dugan called from the flatbed of the truck. "They don't seem to realize that their house is a pile of rubble because of us."

Steve looked unhappy, both because the family's home had been demolished in providing shelter for the Commandos and because they felt like they owed the soldiers for their protection. What they were offering wasn't much. A few dried pieces of fruit. Their blankets (Bucky had a feeling Steve would never consider even touching those, and he was right). A couple of boxes of things. There was one small one, the smallest of the bunch. It was decorated in red and black with a gold bow made of tulle, and the littler girl held it right up to Steve like a hopeful commoner offering a gift to a god. Considering what Steve looked like now and the reverence in the child's eyes, it wasn't far from the truth. Steve asked her something softly. She responded in kind. He smiled. She did, too. And then he took the box and laid his huge hand on the crown of her head, stroking her mussed brown hair for a moment. He spoke more to the grandfather, and the old man nodded, genuinely appreciative. He shook Steve's outstretched hand. Falsworth explained, "Rogers told him that he'll come back for them if he can. And that he'll do what he can to find the girls' father."

From anyone else, those were empty promises. From Steve, they were anything but.

"Let's go," Steve ordered as he finally turned away, the box tucked up in the crook of his elbow, his shield shining in the sunlight that was yet peeking through the thickening clouds. The rest of the Commandos hopped up into the flatbed of the truck, and Jones was quickly putting it into gear and driving back down the town's main road and out into the countryside.

It wasn't until they were a few miles away that Bucky nudged Steve in the ribs with his elbow. "What did you take?"

Steve blushed and smiled sheepishly. He pulled the little box from where it was nestled in his arm and undid the bow to open it. Inside, bedded in ruffled paper cups, were four chocolate truffles. "They weren't gonna starve for four candies." Probably not. "Besides," he added, "Valentine's Day is comin'."

Bucky didn't make sense of that for a moment, having completely lost connection with time and mundane things like civilian holidays. Then he rolled his eyes. "You're pathetic, Rogers."

Steve grinned, unrepentant, and Bucky couldn't help but sock him lightly in the ribs again. Steve carefully put the box in his pack and leaned back against the uncomfortable wooden rail of the flatbed behind them. Even though the wind was cutting through their coats and clothes and the snow was splattering on their frosted faces, Bucky felt a little warmer. Captain America. The only sap in the whole of the United States Army who was giving his gal candy on Valentine's Day in the middle of a worldwide war. That was so like Steve, and Steve being Steve was a ray of sunlight in this cold, hellish nightmare. Of course, there was a hint of worry etched into Steve's face. Worry that Bucky himself felt over the fate of the SSR battalion that was supposed to have had their backs as they'd come north. But he was sure Carter, Stark, Phillips, and the others were okay. They had to be, right?

He didn't know, but he made himself think so. Still, he pressed a little closer to Steve, draping an arm around his broad shoulders and shrugging in deeper for warmth. He normally didn't do stuff like that in front of the other guys, not wanting Steve to be accused of preferential treatment or himself to be thought of as an ass-kisser, but now he did. It was damn cold, so he appreciated Steve's size and heat. Dugan and Dernier and Morita were huddled up as well, bleary-eyed and worn. Falsworth and Jones were silent in the cab. But they were all glad to be alive and moving again. Bucky closed his eyes and pictured what it would be like when they reached the SSR base. Steve was right. It would be warmer. Safer. There'd be a good meal and a comfortable place to sleep maybe, two things that had been sorely lacking in their lives for weeks. There'd be a chance to take a breather and lick their wounds. Everyone would be fine, alive and well.

And Carter would have that look on her face that she always had, like she was trying adamantly to show the world that she wasn't in love when she was plain head over heels for Steve Rogers.


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence, dramatized scenes of war)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Special thanks to everyone reviewing and favoriting and following this story! This story will probably have a few references to _Agent Carter _(but not so many that you need to watch the show to follow along). Also, minor note, but I forgot to mention this earlier. I did a lot of research for this story (both in the real world and MCU). I know that in CA:TWS, it says in the Captain America exhibit that Steve rescued Bucky and the others from somewhere named Azzano. I have not been able to figure out where this is. In CA:TFA, there is a scene before Steve goes to save Bucky where he looks at a map that has sections of Austria, southern Germany, and Italy on it, and there is a town named Bolzano there (which does exist). I always thought that was where he rescued them, but that doesn't agree with CA:TWS, and honestly, who knows? So I'm calling it Bolzano to match CA:TFA.

Anyway, enough of that. Enjoy!

**ABOVE AND BEYOND**

**3**

"_Carter and Rogers… Yeah, there was something there. Everyone knew it. Carter is a hell of a woman, hard as nails and strictly business all the time, so nobody dared say anything to her. She'd bite your head off for even thinking about it. And Rogers blushed like a damn fool if you even mentioned it, but trying to push him about it was pointless. The idea of him ever kissing and telling was complete lunacy. So if you're asking me if there was proof they were ever together… No, can't say there was in particular. But when she came waltzing into that bar back in London, wearing that red dress… Well, a lady doesn't dress like that for just anyone."  
><em>– Timothy "Dum Dum" Dugan, 1953

_February 11__th__, 1944_

As a young girl, Peggy had realized her talents lay outside the home, much to the chagrin of her mother. Her mother, who was descended from a long line of British aristocracy, was ever prim and proper, and to her the greatest accomplishment a woman could achieve in life was marrying a good man, raising children to be well-liked and respectable within society, and being a credit to her husband and her family. It was not that Peggy so much disagreed with those ideals (although she could do without the snobbery she found often accompanying them). She simply wanted more. Her father had served in the Great War, bravely leading British forces in the trenches. Maybe it had never been her place, but that was what she wanted, too. To be of use like that. She had a quick mind, a sharp mind, made for more than planning parties and managing a household and keeping up with society gossip. In 1935, she had joined the British Armed Services as a nurse. She'd worked her way through the ranks, clawing and fighting for respect, struggling to prove herself in a world dominated by the opposite sex. In 1940, she became an agent in the British Secret Intelligence, where she played a pivotal role rescuing Doctor Abraham Erskine from Johann Schmidt's clutches. It had been her heroic efforts there that had led the head of MI6 to assign her to Project: Rebirth as the British liaison to SSR. Even here, though, she continually had to stay on her toes, working harder and staying stronger, because a woman in her position couldn't afford to be seen as anything less than perfect.

But she was less than perfect now. And even she, who never complained about anything to anyone lest it be turned against her, had to admit _this_ was hell.

"Remind me next time to tell Phillips to piss off," Howard grumbled. Stark had been particularly ornery the last week as the seriousness of the situation truly began to sink in. He'd pretty much dispensed with his characteristic charm and wit. "Here. Enjoy it, because that's it." Stark shoved a steaming tin in front of her face. Peggy took one sniff of it. "Sorry. It's not very strong, but it's the best I could muster."

"Quite alright, Mr. Stark," Peggy said, wrapping her hands around the hot cup of coffee. It was watered down and thin, hardly coffee at all, but the fact that Howard had found grounds in their stores was nothing short of a minor miracle. She glanced at the man as he sat beside her on the bench beside the old house being used as a command center. It was once again so damn cold outside, but inside wasn't much better. There were fires, but supplies were running low. _Running low,_ Peggy thought in disdainful worry. _That's an understatement._ Their battalion had been trapped in the snowy hills of central Italy for weeks now. It was one of those situations that had started off well enough but had ultimately spiraled into disaster. They had been dispatched by the Allied commanders to aid the US Fifth Army and the British Eighth Army in breaking the Winter Line, the myriad German fortifications that ran across central Italy. SSR had been pushing northward, hoping to eliminate HYDRA's bases and factories along the Italian countryside and reinforce the war effort along the front. However, the weather had turned into quite the obstacle. A series of blizzards through November and December of the last year had limited their advance and worn on their supplies. The last storm had been monstrous, and considering the engagements they'd had with HYDRA and the Nazis, it had effectively trapped them in this tiny village some sixty miles east of the rest of the Allied forces with a veritable tundra between them and their support.

That was when the situation had truly become dire. Their enemies had been more aware of the gravity of it than they had been, and HYDRA had taken full advantage of it. They'd swept south from their fortifications, pushing down and cutting SSR off from the other armies. That had been over two months ago. Though SSR's battalion was over a thousand men strong, the much larger Fifth and Eighth Armies had serious problems of their own, so aid was not soon in coming. Colonel Phillips had pushed back against HYDRA, ordering skirmishes along the blockade, but they'd won nothing and lost men and precious supplies. The only small advantage they had was that they were fairly certain the commanders of the German blockade couldn't quite pinpoint their base in the rocky, snowy hills. The weather was hindering the Nazis as much as it was the Allies. There was no aerial reconnaissance, and the distance and conditions made scouting on the ground difficult. Something of a cat and mouse game had persisted for weeks now, with no clear victor and the 107th was bleeding more and more with every fight.

In the end, Peggy was sadly certain time would prove their undoing. They were trapped with injured men. There was not enough shelter in this tiny town. Provisions were being drained week by week, day by day. Rations were becoming thin. Medical supplies were thinner still, and the wounded were accumulating from these bursts of battle as Phillips tried to maneuver the battalion such as to break the blockade. They'd started conserving the basics. Water was being gathered by melting snow. Spare uniforms and cloth were cut and used as bandages. Everything of use had long been gathered from the abandoned house and shops of the town. Unfortunately, the denizens of this place who had long left it had taken most things of value and utility. What was left wasn't going to be enough. Unless the weather relented, the men would begin to starve.

So a warm cup of coffee in these dismal conditions was something of a treat, even if it did taste horrible. She let the heat flow through the dented tin into her chapped fingers as she stared out into the dying day. Another night was soon approaching. The sun was setting to her right as she looked south, the final light of day catching the snowflakes that flurried all about them. It was warmer inside the building behind her, where Phillips and Major Anderson were still debating the situation. She couldn't fathom what they were discussing. The maps were the same as they had been yesterday and the day before. And their problems were the same, with the same limited solutions and the same terrible consequences. She supposed it was her duty to join them, but she had nothing to say. Instead she gazed over their ramshackle base. The sprawl that might have been associated with a long-standing camp had been minimized, and everything was kept on alert for attack and ready to move on a moment's notice. The tents around the town's few remaining sturdy buildings were neatly arranged, but their canvas tops were laden with snow and their poles were bowing. The trucks were lined up and idle. Fuel needed to be conserved, so most travel was being done on foot these days. She'd noticed over the last couple of weeks that things had slowly become messier, less well organized. Gear dropped. Things in disarray. The men were tired, hungry, and losing hope.

She was, too, but as concerned as she was for their present situation, she was more still for the Howling Commandos. SSR had been meant to cut a swath northward, pushing HYDRA back and clearing the way for the Commandos to follow and destroy the outlying HYDRA bases in the battalion's wake. With the weather so abysmal, they hadn't been able to make certain the way was clear behind them. For all they knew, the blockade that had cut them off from the Fifth Army could have flanked them, and they might be surrounded. That would mean the Commandos would have to fight through HYDRA to get to them. The whole situation was damnable.

Howard was perceptive. He was brash, arrogant, and suave, the very definition of rich snobbery, but the man was also extraordinarily smart and perhaps the closest thing Peggy had to a friend at the moment. "How long are they overdue?"

Peggy licked her lips, ignoring the sting. They were so dry from the unceasing wind sucking the moisture from them. "Two days."

Howard nodded, squinting and gazing across their snowbound camp to the south as well. South, the direction from which the Commandos would come. If they were alive. If HYDRA hadn't ambushed them. If the last storm hadn't trapped them in this frozen hell. If they could even _find_ the camp. The last attack with the main bulk of HYDRA's forces had been more than a week ago, when the weather had broken enough for the artillery to bombard them. The town's buildings had provided some cover, but most of them were reduced to rubble at this point. They'd lost most of their radio equipment during the attack, and what remained operational was being carefully maintained to keep contact with the Fifth Army. Peggy knew SSR was approximately where it should be, where the Commandos had been told to find them. But with everything that had gone wrong… "Rogers'll get them here," Howard said. He didn't look at her. And he wasn't placating her with empty promises. She glanced at him as he drank his coffee. There wasn't a speck of doubt in Howard's voice, not a shade of fear in his deep brown eyes. Stark loved his extravagance, but when one stripped away all the glamor and wealth, he was a realist. He knew the way the world worked, the way evil worked, and while serving as the army's principal weapons contractor had been a lucrative venture for him and his company, he wasn't just in it for the money. If he had been, he wouldn't have been _here_, freezing and starving and suffering with all the rest of them. Howard believed in doing what was right.

And he, like everyone else in SSR and probably the whole damned United States Army, believed in Captain America.

Peggy did too, of course. Her belief wasn't in the shield or the strength or the image. It wasn't grounded in this symbol Senator Brandt had crafted of the perfect soldier, a warrior against evil and the embodiment of valor, honesty, and righteousness. Propaganda was just that: propaganda. Captain America was in some senses a tool to rally the troops and sell war bonds and bolster the US war effort. But Steve Rogers… She knew for a fact that Steve actually _was_ everything Brandt was trying to sell. The ironic thing was Brandt, and even Phillips and a lot of the men, didn't even realize it. They hadn't seen that Captain America had existed _long_ before the Howling Commandos, before the Medal of Valor earned at Bolzano, before the USO Tour, before chasing down a Nazi spy through Brooklyn, before Project: Rebirth. They hadn't seen what Erskine had seen. What she saw. What Sergeant Barnes saw. Steve was Captain America, but there was so much more to him than that.

That was how she knew Steve would get his men to safety. _Faith._

"What are they talking about in there?" Howard asked, tipping his head back toward the house.

Peggy sighed, pulling from her thoughts. That was getting harder and harder these days. "Nothing helpful," she muttered. She could practically hear Phillips' shouts, his demands that _somebody_ do something to fix their problems. Phillips was a good CO, stern and no-nonsense. He'd been around for a lot and seen even more, and he was stubborn as an ox so it was typically his way or no way. Still, he was a good man, a firm, smart leader who knew the difference between honor and getting the job done no matter its costs. He was caring under his gruff exterior, caring for his men and caring for her. He'd taken a chance on her (a fact of which he felt obliged to remind her often), and while she typically detested preferential treatment, she liked that Phillips listened to her. She didn't think it was because he'd been ordered to by his superiors. At least, she hoped not. Since Bolzano, her opinions seemed to have gained some weight with him, and not simply because she'd been right about Steve's chances of success on his crazy mission to rescue the 107th. She'd shown him her thoughts weren't grounded in a "crush", as he'd put it. She wasn't blind to how the men saw her. Captain America's girl, only there because of her relationship with America's golden boy. It was entirely demeaning, but Phillips had never once treated her with the same dismissive disregard as so many others, Major Anderson included.

Ironically, the men (those that were shameless gossips, complete louts, and utter asses, which sadly comprised most of the companies with which she'd had the displeasure of serving) who were disparaging her had no idea that this "relationship" they thought existed… It really didn't. Not anything as lurid and scandalous as they described. Steve had held her hand once. She'd kissed his cheek. Once, and only because she'd thought the idiot had gotten himself blown up along with the HYDRA base the Commandos had been raiding and she'd been beside herself (well-hidden, of course) with fear. There were countless brushes of her hands to him, his to her, faint, wispy things framed by uncertainty and yearning but awkwardness and a distinct lack of bravery. So many times had she stood perhaps too close to him or permitted his fingers to linger on her shoulder or side longer than they should have or stared at him when she should have been paying attention to her duties. Or caught him staring at her when he should have been paying attention to his. Not that she was cataloguing these instances, of course, or lamenting their brevity or dreaming about them with a deep-rooted desire for more that made her heart speed in her chest and her stomach flutter. She wasn't, because she wasn't some simpering, lovesick fool.

She wasn't.

Still, she realized in retrospect, she'd certainly done things to lend credence to the rumors that she and Steve were carrying on some secret debauchery. Ogling him as she had when he'd emerged from the pod after Project: Rebirth (although so had every other woman present and plenty more since then – she surely should not be faulted for a natural feminine inclination to appreciate physical perfection in the opposite gender). Being as distracted, inefficient, so hampered by worry, as she had been when Steve had been missing in Bolzano. Wearing that red dress to the bar in London. _That_ had been a particularly silly flight of sensibility. She'd been euphoric, so relieved that Steve had succeeded in rescuing the 107th and come back alive. And she'd been so proud of herself for having had faith in him and for having given him the push to have faith in himself. So she'd made herself all poshed up, and she'd known it and flaunted it because she'd _wanted_ him to notice her and look at her exactly how he'd looked at her, with heat in his eyes and a nervous smile on his lips. Never let it be said that she didn't enjoy having power over the men around her, but power over _him_ like that… That was something else entirely. But she really hadn't thought it through. And between that and the little spat they'd had the morning after when she'd caught him with Private Lorraine _and_ the innumerable times since then that she'd flirted and he'd blushed and they'd danced around each other… And her picture in his compass. The evidence was far more incriminating than she liked.

And her relationship was Steve was far less than what she wanted, to be honest.

"Peg?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes. What?"

Howard's lips curled up in an amused grin under his mustache. He wasn't as clean-shaven as he normally was, but then, it was hard to appear impeccable in this situation. Peggy would know, given the disheveled state of her unwashed hair and the stiffness of her uniform (the same one she'd worn for days now) under her coat. "You're drifting, doll."

"I am not. And I would appreciate it if you didn't call me that," Peggy admonished, more embarrassed at how she'd gotten so lost in her thoughts than anything else.

Howard sipped more of his coffee. She expected some sort of quip from him, perhaps about how if Rogers had done it would she still be so huffy, but he didn't. Another place and time, he probably wouldn't have hesitated. But here and now, with Peggy so worried about Steve, he was too good of a man to give her a hard time about it. "You ever think about what it'll be like after the war's over?"

That question took her aback. "Right now I'm trying to focus on finding a way out of this mess," she responded.

Howard grunted. "This is simultaneously the most nerve-wracking and boring experience of my life. Had a lot of time to think. You know, what it'll be like if we ever get out of this hellhole."

"You didn't have to be here, Howard."

"Little late for that now," Howard said, his eyes distant as he stared out across the camp. "And I could say the same of a lot of the guys here. Hell, Rogers tried five times for the joy of freezing his ass off and being tired and hungry and getting shot at all the time, if you believe the rumors." Peggy did believe them because she'd seen the intake forms herself. Five failed attempts to enlist due to poor health. "Just… thinking about home, I guess."

Peggy glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "You don't strike me as the type to get homesick. Which mansion are you missing the most?"

Howard looked a tad insulted, and Peggy almost felt bad for her snarky remark. Almost. "I only own one mansion," he replied with false irritation. "Most of the rest are penthouses here and there. And a beach house. I suppose that could be classified as a mansion." He wrinkled his nose a little, a nose strikingly red from the frigid air. "And I'm not missing anyone, either, before you go thinking I'm in love. I don't believe in that kind of nonsense."

"Of course you don't," Peggy agreed, thinking about the dozens of flashy girls she'd seen on Howard's arm since she'd met him.

"Honestly, Carter… I'm missing my inventions."

Peggy almost laughed, but she held it back when she realized that Howard was serious. And he realized how close she'd come to it. "Don't laugh." His eyes had a wistful look to them as he gazed out over the camp again, his lips pressed tightly together. "You don't have to miss people and places, you know. And work? That's _my_ passion. I left a bunch of things half-finished at home." He shook his head, wincing like the thought of not completing a project was uncomfortable. "Hate that. And now they're in my vault, in my basement, in my workshops… collecting dust and waiting for me to get back to them. My babies. I was in the middle of some really interesting things, you know. But there's a damn war going on, and I have to do my part." She was idly surprised at the bitterness in his voice. "And that's that."

Peggy stared at Howard for a moment, stared and thought about him bent over a workbench as she'd seen him in SSR's labs back in London, eyes narrowed and fingers long and agile in the guts of some sort of machine he had in pieces before him. The light, the intensity, in those dark orbs as he _saw_ things in the machinery that she, that most everyone, never would. His passion. And hers was this. She had her dreams, of course, about the war being over. Admittedly, they had changed somewhat of late. But going back to the life she'd led? She'd served in the military so long that she didn't know anything else. And she hadn't considered the simple life, the _domestic _life that her mother had wanted for her in years.

But she was now. Just a little, if she could be honest. A life after the war. A fantasy. Howard looked forlorn, not weak exactly, but resigned to a fate that ended with him never going back to who he'd been. None of them could. "Your… babies will still be there waiting for you when we get out of here," Peggy assured.

Howard sniffed, looking doubtful. "Yeah. Yeah, I know."

"And we will get out of here."

"Rogers rubbing off on you?"

"Optimism has its place."

Howard shook his head ruefully, raising his coffee to his lips. "Don't think it's here," he muttered into his cup. Peggy followed his gaze back out over the expanse of the camp, the endless stretch of new, white snow and old, dirty snow and ice upon snow. Men, miserable. Supplies, broken and dwindling. Hell, frozen solid and unbreakable. Time running out.

They were silent for a while after that. Phillips was yelling more, and Anderson was standing firm against him. Phillips outranked Anderson, but Anderson was the sort of man who didn't think _anyone_ had authority over him. She'd heard through the grapevine that Anderson was the son of a US senator and had therefore been reassigned numerous times because of his prickly demeanor rather than outright reprimanded. He was a good soldier, but his ego got him into too much trouble, and he'd been handed around from division to division like a bad penny. He'd landed with SSR a few weeks back, right before Christmas. Since then, he'd been a thorn in Phillips' side (and Peggy's, for that matter). He was a contrarian, pure and simple. One could argue until one was blue in the face that two plus two was four, and he'd still maintain with the most infuriating confidence that it was five. And, on the rare occasion he did concede, he found ways to put his stamp on the situation, not undermine necessarily, but not do entirely what was ordered of him in the way it was ordered. He was impulsive and arrogant, two traits that commonly went hand in hand yet complemented each other poorly.

Frankly, if it was Peggy's call (which it was not), she would have had Anderson removed from the chain of command for all of his obstinacy that bordered on insubordination. As the situation had worsened and tempers had frayed, he was becoming more and more of a problem. Still, they needed every able-bodied soldier they had, and every leader more so, and Anderson was smart and capable. And he had a point with his opinions. He was advocating retreat, getting the men away from the Winter Line and falling back to secure locations in southern Italy. Their communications were so poor with the other Allied divisions that there was no clear understanding of their orders at this point, and it was rapidly turning into a situation where "every man for himself" would become a reality. Phillips wouldn't hear of it. Part of that was due to Phillips' ego; the colonel _never_ backed down from a fight unless it was absolutely necessary. But, more than that, they were out in the middle of enemy territory with horrendous weather conditions and minimal supplies. Marching a thousand men across these rocky hills and open plains seemed ill-advised. And, even more than that, without SSR there, HYDRA could very well flank the other US forces. It was out of the question.

But Anderson's idea was getting more and more difficult to ignore. They were alone, without aid, and pretty soon the situation would become intractable. Weather aside, without food and munitions and other supplies, there was no way they could make the march south. Time was rapidly pulling the possibility of retreat out from under them.

She couldn't parse the tense words of Anderson from the stern, angry replies of Phillips. She supposed she should have gone back into the house to make an effort to be a voice of reason, but a ruckus down the road drew her attention. A group of soldiers was there. They'd been huddled around a fire in the remains of one of the houses, sharing rations and huddling together for warmth, but what had been a seemingly innocuous thing had transformed into a brawl.

Howard was up and running, his coffee forgotten on the bench. "Hey! Hey! Break it up!" he shouted, getting to the men and trying to pull them apart. There were maybe a half dozen of them, dirty and freezing and fighting like drunkards.

Peggy followed quickly but not quickly enough to do anything as Howard was unceremoniously punched in the face. The inventor fell back, staggering with a hand pressed to his gushing nose. For some reason, that made Peggy's anger come harsh and sharp. "Alright, knock it off! Stand to attention!" No one listened to her. She gritted her teeth, pushing in the middle of the fray, undaunted by the flying fists and kicking feet. There were two men atop a third, who was squirming and struggling in the snow. A few others were trying to help the man at the bottom of the pile. She grabbed one of the fighters by his green coat and yanked with strength that clearly surprised them all. "Now!"

Howard was back at her side, wiping at his bloody face, glaring menacingly at the men backing away from her. "Stand to attention! All of you!" she barked. The man underneath the pile climbed to his feet with a groan, shoving back those still touching him. That caused another round of punches. "Enough!" No one listened. It was rather shocking that something like this hadn't happened yet, in all honesty. With the men so tired and hungry and cold, damn well discouraged… That didn't matter, though. Peggy narrowed her eyes and caught the next strike the bigger soldier was throwing. He looked completely shocked. She squeezed his wrist hard, very hard, knowing exactly where to press between bones and tendons to hit nerves. She put enough pressure on the joint to threaten. "I said," she said sternly, _"enough."_ He cried out and went down onto one knee.

That seemed to finally get the attention of the others. Peggy looked up to see quite the group surrounding them now. She released the soldier's hand and loomed over him. "Care to explain yourself, private?"

The man on the ground held his aching hand. "No," he gasped. "No, ma'am."

Peggy turned, eyeing the one who'd been at the bottom of the fight. His face was badly bruised, dirty brown hair covering his brow. "How about you?" she asked.

The young man swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. He shook his head, flushing with shame. "No, ma'am."

"Good." She glanced around the group anew, eyes blazing. "I frankly don't care why you were fighting. But whatever the reason, it ends here and now. There is no room for this given the trouble we're in." The soldiers looked crushed, despondent, and for a moment, Peggy felt the tad bit regretful for her harsh tone. Her face softened. "I realize the situation is… difficult, but we must make the best of what we have. Disorder benefits no one. Do I make myself clear?"

A chorus of mumbles responded. One of the men wasn't so keen on being compliant. "What the hell's going on?" he demanded. His voice was hot with irritation. "Why are we just sitting here and letting them HYDRA bastards pick us apart?"

"Agent Carter, there's nothing left to eat," another man said, as if she didn't know.

"Why the hell isn't the colonel doing something?" asked a third.

"What are we waiting for?"

The mumbles turned louder and angrier, the mob of disenfranchised troops closing in. Peggy turned, eyeing the crowd as more and more men from the surrounding encampment came over to see the commotion. They wanted answers, answers as to why the battalion had been trapped, surrounded, crushed under the winter weather, and strangled by the blockade. They wanted to know why Phillips hadn't gotten them out of this mess. Peggy didn't have an answer. "I'm sure Colonel Phillips is formulating a plan," she declared, hoping that didn't sound as much like a lie as she thought it did.

It did. "Bullshit!" snapped the first soldier.

"Hey," Howard said, irate himself. "Show the lady some respect."

Peggy bristled, about to glare at Howard for both coming to her defense and demeaning her at the same time, but her eyes caught sight of something down the way. It was a dark blob in the evening shadows. The sound of a long-suffering engine rumbled, getting louder and louder. The blob crested the top of a snowy hill, and when it came down the other side, she saw it was a farm truck. It came to a halt out there in the field beyond the town, and through the flurries filling the air, she saw a familiar figure decked in blue hop out of the back. A silver star glinted on his back as he turned. Then he was running toward them.

"Steve," she whispered before she could stop herself. She was moving before she could stop herself, too, the heat of excitement rushing through her frozen body for the first time in weeks. She sprinted down the snow-laden road, weaving her way through the tents and stations and guns and trucks that cluttered it. Vaguely she heard the others following her, thought she shouldn't seem so frantic or so desperate, but that didn't dissuade her. It was like Bolzano all over again, but colder and somehow significantly more meaningful.

A moment later Steve was at the entrance of the town, the other Commandos behind him. "Truck's dead," he said when he came up to her, not at all breathless despite having run through the deep snow. "We need a litter brought out. Morita's leg's in bad shape." His cheeks were wind-bitten around his mask, but his eyes were bright and blue and she couldn't stop staring at them. She couldn't stop, because he was here. And he was safe.

He was still talking, mentioning something about HYDRA in the hills and the team successfully getting the cipher. The others were talking, too. Barnes, standing beside Steve as he always did, healthy and hale and so relieved to have made it. Dugan and Falsworth. Jones and Dernier with Morita limping between them as they pushed through the snow. The soldiers from their camp gave a raucous cheer to see Captain America and his Howling Commandos had returned. For a moment, all their troubles were distant. Easily overcome. Their hero was right with them, so everything was going to be alright.

Because he was alright. _He's alright. They're all alright. Oh, thank the lord._ Peggy remembered to breathe. Steve looked at her and grinned a dopey grin, realizing then that she hadn't really been listening because she was a bit lost and somewhat incredulous and infinitely relieved. "Hi, Peggy," he finally greeted.

God, she wanted to kiss him. But the ever-present voice of decorum beat out _no_ in the corner of her mind, so she settled on taking him in with eyes that weren't at all teary (not in the least) and basking in the fact he was back. Honestly, it wasn't all that hard to convince herself that really he'd just come back to _her_. Everyone and everything else was, for the moment at any rate, incidental.

* * *

><p>The celebration was short-lived, to say the least. It ended practically right after it began, because Steve and his men were walking through the camp, and the sad state of the 107th was right before them. The pale, unshaven faces of the men, hope in their eyes but not fervent enough to light them. They looked hungry and cold and desperate. And there was the mounting disarray of things. The wreckage from the recent fight. It was considerably obvious how poor their situation was, and when the Commandos noticed, smiles slipped. Relief was doused in a new round of icy misery. Expressions tightened into concerned, fatigued frowns. It was just as obvious that they had been hoping for relief upon finding SSR's camp, but relief was not to be had here.<p>

"What the hell happened?" Falsworth asked, eyeing the bleak display unhappily.

Peggy didn't feel up to answering that right away. "What happened to you? You're days late," she said, her voice not entirely without a reprimand. A reprimand she pretending wasn't entirely directed at Steve for worrying her.

"Countryside's crawling with HYDRA," Dugan explained. "Getting here wasn't easy."

That was what she'd feared. She felt ashamed for having failed them, having let them down, even if they seemed alright. Jones had obviously been shot at one point, if the reddish brown stain on the shoulder of his fatigues was any indication. He had a sack over his other shoulder. "Did manage to get what we came for, though," he said, setting the dirty thing to the snow.

Howard dropped to a crouch beside it. For a man who had hired help to do everything imaginable for him, he was certainly hands-on. He pulled open the drawstrings of the sack and parted the canvas. "Good goddamn," he murmured. "Now that's the sexiest thing I have seen in _weeks_." Peggy resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She couldn't entirely see the item in question, but she caught a glimpse of a dark, wooden box filled with buttons, gears, and rotary parts. Howard cocked his head. "Well, with this, their codes will be an open book." He grimaced as though conceding something to himself. "Not that it will matter if we don't get out of this."

"Take Morita to a surgeon," Steve ordered Dernier and Jones. Morita looked like he wanted to argue that, but he was pale and his eyes were ringed in darkness. He was ill, with a dirty bandage around his leg and listlessness in his eyes. Steve nodded at Jones, and the large man immediately took Morita's weight from Dernier and half carried the injured Commando to an aid station. Steve didn't seem entirely happy, relieved that Morita was getting care (his injury must have been days old) but distraught that it was coming so late and that it would be in such bleak conditions. There wouldn't be much the surgeon could do with their dwindling medical supplies.

"Sergeant Dugan, I'd be most obliged if you'd haul this over to my tent," Howard said, gesturing to the heavy sack.

Dugan took off his bowler, scrubbed a hand through his hair, and sniffed shortly. "Been carryin' the damn thing around for days. What's another twenty feet." He grabbed the sack and hefted it over his shoulder.

Howard nodded at Steve. "I hope you got a plan, Rogers," he said, making absolutely no attempt to disguise the fact that he was completely serious. "Because we sure as hell need a good one."

Steve watched him leave, Barnes standing close. He looked dismayed. Underneath the dirt and wind-chapped skin on his cheeks, he was pale, and his eyes were teeming with an itching need to do something to fix whatever problems there were. It was an expression he often wore, and Peggy decided then and there that she didn't like it on him. "What's the situation?" he asked.

She still didn't want to answer that. "Perhaps you would like something to eat first," she offered. "Or to rest." It was more than obvious the Commandos had gone through quite a struggle to get to them. And there was that same rusty brown on Steve's side as there had been on Morita's leg and Jones' shoulder. He'd been wounded. Something tightened inside her at seeing that. She knew better than anyone what Captain America was capable of doing, but that wound could be the first of others she couldn't see, and that bothered her a great deal.

She shared a look with Barnes. She didn't know Bucky as well as she would have liked, but she'd never met someone as loyal or as steadfast in his devotion to a friendship. Bucky was a little unpolished, something of a sweet-talker and a charmer and a tad arrogant, but he was smart and extremely capable. And she knew beyond any doubt that he would protect Steve. The other Commandos were there with him as well of course, and she trusted them. But the relationship Steve had with Bucky went far back into their youths and was built on a foundation that seemed unshakable. After all, Bucky's incarceration with the rest of the 107th had been the biggest reason Steve had turned Captain America from a dancing monkey into a full-fledged hero. "Cap, whatever's goin' on, it can wait a few hours until we're ready," he offered. Apparently he'd read her mind with that single glance.

Steve wasn't satisfied with that. "I'm ready now. You guys can take a breather."

"Captain–"

"That's an order, Lieutenant," Steve said to Falsworth. His expression softened when he realized his tone came off harsh, probably harsher than he intended. "Let's just… see what's going on first. I need to talk to the Colonel."

Any hope that Steve would take a minute to have his side checked out died. Peggy bit the inside of her cheek in a mixture of worry and frustration. "Alright. This way." They were walking again, heading along the street through the camp and toward the command center. Peggy walked at Steve's left, matching his long and purposeful strides. She explained as they went. "We've been cut off from the Fifth Army. We were to push north and secure the eastern end of the Winter Line as possible, but the weather has proved disadvantageous, to say the least. We became trapped by a blizzard, and when that happened, HYDRA came down from the hills and got between us and Colonel Stone's battalion to the west. They cut the supply chain."

Steve winced at that. He gave a long, hard look at the men in the camp, curled under threadbare blankets and huddled together for warmth in the paltry shelter provided by the few upright buildings. Most were coughing and cold in their ripped uniforms, trembling under their sloping tents. Empty eyes and emptier hearts. "How long ago was this?"

"Nearly six weeks. We've been embedded here since."

"The whole damn countryside's bein' choked," Bucky added. As they reached the house serving as the base of operations, he took his hat off and stuffed it into the pocket of his coat. The blue wool looked worn and weary, covered in snow and mud. Thankfully, he didn't seem injured. "There are people starving out there. And there's HYDRA all over the hill, wreaking havoc."

Ever the gentleman, Steve opened the door for her to enter. "Colonel Phillips, sir," she called. "Captain Rogers and the Howling Commandos have arrived."

The house was hardly anything, a single floor with barely three rooms. Phillips was staring at the back of dining area. The dim yellow light from the lanterns washed over him and from the meager fire struggling in the hearth, making him seem distant and not quite real. But he was, and he was burdened and weathered. Peggy could tell from the slump of his shoulders that he was even more weary and frustrated than when she'd left him earlier. He turned, and though he hid it well, his relief at seeing Steve and his men was fairly evident. The scowl permanently affixed to his wrinkled face softened slightly. His eyes filled with that same, bleak hope that she'd seen in the soldiers' eyes as they walked through the camp. "About damn time," he grumbled. "What the hell happened to you?"

"HYDRA happened, sir," Steve responded. He gave a respectful salute.

"No shit, son. At ease."

Anderson, who had been leaning over the maps spread over the dining room table in the center of the room, straightened and appraised the returning heroes coldly. "Welcome back, Captain." His tone was not at all welcoming.

"Thank you, sir," Steve replied evenly. He undid the snaps of his helmet and pulled it off, revealing blond hair that looked fairly sweaty and completely filthy. "Permission to debrief you, sir?"

Phillips nodded. "Go ahead."

Steve came closer and looked down at the maps. His quick eyes scanned the markings, the lines where Peggy herself had estimated the blockade to be. Barnes followed, glancing down over Steve's shoulder. "This was the HYDRA base," Steve said, pointing at a position on the map. He shook his head. "We were successful in getting the HYDRA cipher machine. It's already been delivered to Mr. Stark."

Phillips nodded. "Casualties?"

"Sergeants Jones and Morita were both hit," Steve reported. Peggy glanced again to his injured side but said nothing. "We met more resistance than intel led us to believe."

"Coming up from the south?" Anderson asked.

Steve shook his head. "I'm not sure. There was heavy artillery at the base, and another lighter armored truck that we encountered here." Steve pointed to a position some miles northeast of the now destroyed HYDRA base. "This is the blockade?" he asked.

Peggy stood beside him. "The Winter Line," she declared, gesturing to a fat, red line that transected Italy. "The last we heard from the Fifth Army, they were attempting to push the Germans out of the hills near Cassino. Their position was west of us, perhaps fifty miles or so, but since the last blizzard, HYDRA has come south." She pointed at the V shaped mark that cut the Allied forces apart, SSR from the much bigger Fifth Army and Eighth British Infantry. "Before the weather turned so dismal, we had reports from aerial reconnaissance that the blockade is layered two deep, with this line closest to us, this expanse of hills, and then a second line closer to the Fifth Army."

"Shit, that's not good," Barnes muttered. "Two lines?"

"Getting through one won't be enough," Steve said softly, his eyes glazed in thought.

"No," Phillips agreed. "We also have HYDRA to the north, but they should be running thin up there unless they'd been reinforced by Nazi forces above the Winter Line, which could be happening. We've got no intel worth a damn at this point. The goddamn blizzard grounded planes and made foot recon damn near impossible."

"How many men are in this line?" Steve asked, pointing to the line of the V-shape that was closest to them and therefore the most immediate threat.

Peggy clenched her jaw slightly, wishing she had something more useful to offer. "Difficult to say. At least a few hundred."

"We've been testing the line over the last couple of weeks," Phillips added, "here, here, and here." Red X's marked the skirmishes. The colonel's eyes darkened. "Nothing to show for it but injured men."

"And they haven't made a move against us?" Steve asked.

Phillips grunted, and his glower grew more malignant yet. "They've been taking pot shots at us. Not enough to hurt bad but enough to be causing problems. Last one was more than a week again. Rained long-range artillery on us for an hour, but it seemed like they were shooting blind because, as you can see, we're still here and stuff's still standing."

"Which means either they don't know where we are for certain," Anderson supplied, "or the weather has hindered them as much as it has us."

"Or they're waiting until we're too weak to fight back," Steve murmured. _That's closer than I care to think about. _Peggy shivered, and not simply from the cold. Steve's brow furrowed. "How bad are the supplies?"

"Agent Carter?" Phillips said, glancing her way.

Peggy had gathered information from the company commanders earlier that morning. She swallowed as the eyes of the room turned to her. "By my current inventory, we'll be out of food, even with strict rationing, in less than ten days. Medical supplies are already depleted. Munitions are decent, though not for a protracted fight, which attacking that blockade will surely be."

Falsworth seemed incredulous. "The men already look like they're starving out there, with all due respect."

"Strict rationing," Peggy reminded in a cool tone. "Furthermore, some have taken it upon themselves to save their portions for the wounded."

"How many wounded are there?" Steve asked.

Peggy's anger failed her. Truth be told, she (and Phillips, if she was honest) felt a bit of a failure. There was nothing they could have done. Once that storm had hit, it had sealed their fate. HYDRA had already been well established in its position, secure in the high ground and well bunkered against both the weather and SSR's attacks. SSR's battalion was an invading force in an enemy country. There was no easy way to retreat. And when HYDRA had surged down and cut them from their allies, they'd been doomed. Still, she felt responsible. It was her job to strategize, to manage the logistics of SSR's field operations, and, extenuating circumstances aside, if men were starving and freezing and dying from their wounds, it was her fault. "Eighty-six. One hundred ten have already died, either in the attacks or from the cold and their injuries."

"How much longer can we last out here, Agent Carter?" Barnes asked.

Peggy was tempted to spout some nonsense, the same nonsense that had been running through her brain for days. She'd been mentally manipulating the numbers, trying to eke out a plausible solution to extending the life of their stores. Pulling the problem apart and putting it back together and working her fingers through the tangled knot of it all to find a way to make it right. There was no way. "If things continue as they have been, another couple weeks, if that." Steve was trying not to be bothered by that for her sake, but she felt his short intake of breath beside her. "And that's assuming another storm doesn't strike."

Phillips looked away in frustration. "That happens and it won't matter how many of those HYDRA bastards are out there."

"What do you suggest, sir?" Falsworth asked.

It was a rare thing. Phillips looked right at Steve. Phillips was _deferring_ to Steve. _The world has truly gone mad, _Peggy decided, not certain if she was proud or amused or disturbed. She realized why Phillips was doing this, of course. It was unspoken, but damn obvious. If there was going to be a fight against HYDRA here to save SSR, Steve was going to have to lead it. "Captain Rogers?"

Steve was lost in thought as he looked over the maps. Salvation was only fifty or sixty miles away, but it was fifty or sixty miles with two German lines stretching through them and a hellish expanse of winter over difficult terrain. Still, the set of his jaw was recognizable. So was the glint of determination in his eyes. "We need to break the blockade." He looked up and met Phillips' gaze evenly. "There's no choice, sir."

Peggy didn't know if she was relieved or terrified. She glanced at Barnes, but he was stiff at Steve's side, staring down at the map like he was trying to figure a way out of this mess that didn't involve Steve doing _exactly_ what they all knew he was planning to do. There wasn't one. She wanted to tell him that, but she couldn't.

Anderson's irritation was practically simmering beneath his composure. "With all due respect, Captain, that's impossible. The men are worn down. A lot of them are suffering from hypothermia. Even if Agent Carter is right and there are only a few hundred enemy troops in this line, there's no telling how many _more _there might be between the first line and the second or how well fortified that second line is." The major turned his sharp glare to Phillips. "Colonel, I suggest _again_ that we retreat. Now. Every minute we waste arguing is a minute we don't have."

"Major, HYDRA is behind us," Falsworth reminded. "We saw them. They are all over those hills. Do you honestly think they're going to let us escape? We're in the trapper's snare now."

"We're pinned down," Bucky added. "We need to fight back out."

"Yes, Sergeant, we _are_ pinned down," Anderson returned hotly. He glared at Barnes like he was wondering how in the world an enlisted man could be a part of this conversation. "We've spent weeks running through our supplies, damn well languishing out here in this frozen hell, when we should have been falling back. If the Fifth Army can't or won't send us aid, then, sir, to hell with them."

"Major," Phillips growled warningly.

Anderson wasn't going to be daunted. "With all due respect to you, sir, and to Captain Rogers, nothing's different now from earlier today or from yesterday or two days ago or a week ago. Just because Captain America is here doesn't mean the blockade can be broken. Our situation hasn't changed."

Steve stood straighter. "And with all due respect to _you_, sir, I'm not saying it has. But we can't retreat. Look at their positions. If we pull out, the Fifth Army will be flanked."

"Last we heard from them, their situation was going to shit as much as ours. The Winter Line isn't breaking," Anderson answered. "Sir, get on the horn with Colonel Stone. Tell them we have to withdraw."

Steve spoke up before Phillips could respond. He swept his fingers on the map, south of their current position. "We have _no idea_ how many HYDRA are between us and friendly territory. This blockade's making a corridor; they could be funneling down there, coming up behind us. We need to shut it down."

"With what, Captain?" Anderson snapped. "Vim, vigor, and the American way?"

"Enough, Major," Phillips snapped. "I've about had it with sitting here, freezing our asses off while HYDRA laughs _their_ asses back to Berlin. I'm not about to run away from this fight, and I don't care how bad the situation is. We're soldiers. We'll fight in the snow, and we'll fight hungry." He turned to Steve. "What do you need?"

Steve looked down at the map again. Peggy could see him thinking, considering what he required for this sudden and newly acquired mission. "This hill here. Is it clear or are there trees?"

Anderson peered closer at the fairly sizeable hill. Peggy immediately realized why Steve was interested in it. They'd thought the same in the past. The hill would provide a vantage from which they could determine where the HYDRA line might be and how many men might comprise it. Anderson seemed fairly rebuked by Phillips' admonishment and not at all happy about being questioned, but he answered instead of stonewalling. "That one's wooded, so there's cover. But we know HYDRA scouts have been on patrol here." He dragged a pen along the bottom of the hill. "You're going to have to get through them undetected first and foremost."

Steve glanced at Bucky, who nodded. "Not a problem."

"What's your plan, Rogers?" Phillips asked.

"I don't have one yet," Steve answered simply, "except to get out there and see what we're dealing with. First thing in the morning, Colonel."

"We've tried this," Anderson said. "There's no way to get across this field without being seen."

"Snow's coming tomorrow," Steve supplied like that was enough of an explanation. Anderson rolled his eyes and tightened his jaw, disparaging but not entirely doubtful. "I'm betting I can see them better than they'll be able to see me. If I can get close enough to get a good look, we should be able to determine what we're up against. Then we punch through and–"

"And what?" Anderson practically sneered.

Steve sighed. "And go from there, sir."

Anderson's eyes glimmered in anger. "You got an awful lot of faith in yourself, Captain."

Steve said nothing to that, not rising to the bait. Instead, he turned to Phillips. "With your permission, sir, I'd like to check on my men and see if there's anything I can do to help around here." Phillips nodded. Steve gave Peggy a small glance, so fast she almost missed it, and turned. Barnes and Falsworth followed him, each saluting the colonel before leaning close to Steve to speak lowly. Peggy wanted to go with him as well, but she didn't dare.

A few seconds after Steve and the other Commandos were gone, Phillips heaved a sigh and glared at Anderson. "I know you're new to this unit, Major, and it probably doesn't mean much to you, but Captain America isn't just rhetoric. If there's anyone who has a chance of getting us out of this mess, it's him. Show some respect."

"Sir, I–"

"I don't know if he can break the blockade. Not with the condition the men are in." Phillips grabbed his coat and shrugged it on before zipping it up. He paused and looked Anderson square in the eye. "But I do know he'll try his damnedest. And that's good enough for me." Phillips shuffled out of the house.

Anderson stood still for a moment, gaze distant and mouth tight with a frown. Peggy watched him, feeling more than slightly pleased with the fact that he'd been taken down a notch. It was petty and not at all conducive to getting out of this situation, but she couldn't help herself. Eventually Anderson's eyes narrowed on her, like he'd seen some of her inward appreciation for how things had gone. "You're dismissed, Agent," he tightly declared.

Peggy nodded. "Yes, sir." She pivoted and headed toward the door.

"When you see Captain Rogers tonight, be sure to tell him that if this fails, it's on him."

A chill colder than those brought on by the unending snow and wind wracked over her. She could hardly believe what she'd heard. And then she could hardly believe his audacity. "Excuse me?" she asked softly.

Anderson didn't smile. He was rigid, hard, and uncaring. "You heard me, Agent. We all know why you're here."

She fought to keep her composure. No one had ever had the gall to outright accuse her of what this man was accusing her. For once, her quick wit and sharp tongue utterly failed her. She wondered if she was merely a convenient target for his wrath, someone at whom he could lash out given his frustration and the difficulty of their plight. It didn't matter. It was crass and disrespectful and he was an arrogant bastard for saying it.

But before she could summon up some sort of response, Anderson sharply said again, "You're dismissed."

It was all she could do to hold her head up high as she walked away.

* * *

><p>The rest of the day dragged away. Peggy was hyperaware of every eye on her (even the eyes that weren't on her), constantly plagued by the unpleasant sensation of unwanted attention. A shudder kept tickling at the small of her back, and it was difficult to stifle the continual itch to look over her shoulder and see if she was in fact being watched. She busied herself with work, with taking stock again of their supplies (though things hadn't improved since she'd last counted – quite the opposite, actually, but she went through the laborious process of ensuring her counts were accurate, and they were, of course, despite the hope she' d been wrong). She'd helped in the aid station as well; she had training as a field nurse, and she wasn't afraid to offer an additional set of hands. The remaining buildings were reserved for the wounded, beds saved for those most serious. She changed bandages, offered a comforting word and smile, held hands and pushed blankets tighter to shivering bodies. The aid station was by far the warmest place in the camp, with fires in barrels and fireplaces and wherever they could safely burn, but even here the chill was pervasive and deep-set into everything and everyone. She found out much to her relief that both Jones and Morita would be fine. Morita made a general nuisance of himself as his leg had been tended; the field work was sufficient that the surgeon didn't have to do much to treat the wound. Jones was with him, arguing and telling him to be quiet and their bickering brought much needed life to the building. Jones pulled her aside once his shoulder was cleaned and bandaged as best as possible to tell her the Cap had been missing her something fierce over the last weeks, subtly and in not so many words of course. She remained stony and impassive about his comment, but inside was been touched and empowered.<p>

After that, she worked until the sun went down, until her hands were too numb to move, trying not to think, not to feel the shame and the embarrassment and the anger. Not to feel the damn _cold_. But it was hard, and she left the last building no more comforted or warm than when she came.

It was night now, late, and it was snowing again. Snowing in earnest, heavy flakes coming down one after another. She wandered the street and wondered how Steve had known the snow was coming. Perhaps they'd driven through it. Perhaps he'd learn to recognize the signs in the clouds. Maybe this was some sort of side-effect of the super soldier serum, senses attuned to the weather or some such. She thought about that idly for a while, a vague, silly thing that occupied her and kept her from the bleak surroundings and her even bleaker thoughts. The men were bedding down for the night, huddling together in their tents or wherever they could find shelter in the stone and wood of the rubble, scrambling for blankets and coats and the heat of each other. She was looking for Steve without even realizing it, glancing at the dark forms of the soldiers, searching for his unmistakable frame among the men. She walked for a while before she finally found him.

The Commandos had pitched their tents not far from the command house where there was some open ground. The men had already done the daily task of shoveling the snow away and clearing the paths, so it was easy to reach them. Dugan and Jones were outside, standing in the cascading snow and smoking. Dugan eyed her coming closer. "You lookin' for the Cap, Carter?"

For some reason, that question irked her. Was she that transparent? But she swallowed down a harsh retort, because Dugan might be a bit brutish, but he would never think to disparage her. "Indeed, Sergeant."

"He's back with Barnes," Dugan explained with a tip of his head.

"Thank you." Peggy didn't stay around long enough to watch them go back to their conversation. She walked through the tents and along the shattered side of one of the houses, stepping over a pile of broken masonry. It wasn't hard to spot Steve. He and Barnes were sitting outside on the cold ground, pressed close and talking quietly. Steve had his shield on his lap. Bucky was cleaning his rifle. The sight gave her pause, even though she'd seen it so often in the past. This seemed more poignant than she recalled. She could imagine this scene in a thousand different contexts. At home in Brooklyn. At school. In the streets. On the playground. Little knobby-kneed Steve Rogers, kicking his knobby knees and skinny legs over a boardwalk at Coney Island, with Bucky doing the same next to him and offering him a wisp of cotton candy or some ice cream. Two boys in the sunset, one with floppy blond hair and the other dark Irish. She imagined that, of course, but it seemed so _real_ that it had to have happened.

She felt she was an intruder, and she almost decided to leave. But Bucky caught sight of her, and he was on his feet in an instant. Steve followed suit, his eyes darkening with so many emotions, shame and worry and relief. And _want_. "Ma'am," Bucky said, nodding at her. He gave Steve a knowing smile, a proud smile, that same smile he'd had in the pub that night when she'd worn the red dress. "I'll, uh, just go… over there."

Barnes left. Peggy didn't know whether to be embarrassed or excited. They were in the middle of enemy territory, in a camp filled with a thousand hungry, miserable soldiers, and she was standing there relatively alone with Captain America. She knew Barnes and the other Commandos would protect their privacy, and that was exhilarating in a way it shouldn't have been. "Are you okay, Peggy?" Steve finally asked. He flushed. "I was going to come find you, but I got caught up trying to reinforce the perimeter and they said you were busy and I didn't want to–"

To hell with it. She grabbed him by a strap on his uniform and pulled him closer, lowering her brow to the star across his chest. She closed her eyes, her grip downright possessive, but she didn't care. She finally let herself feel the fear and worry that had been troubling her for days, breathing deep to keep the tears back and the sob firmly where no one would hear it. She felt the tentative press of Steve's bare hand, huge and strong and warm, in her hair. "You can't do that again," she said breathlessly. "Do you understand me?"

"Sure, but what did I do?" His other hand was bolder, slipping around her back to pull her closer to him.

"You made me afraid you weren't coming back," she answered.

There was still a respectful inch between (perhaps half an inch, though it felt like a mile), and she knew she needed to keep it there. She tried to, at any rate. But Steve was strong as he enfolded her against him, and she had no choice but to sink into his chest. She thought she could hear his heart beating under the star as she laid her cheek to it. "I'll always come back, Peg," he murmured.

This was the closest they'd ever been, and now that she had a taste, she knew going back to their relationship as it had been would be impossible. Colleagues. Friends. That wasn't what she wanted. She pulled away with a great deal of effort to look up into his eyes. Flakes of snow danced across his lashes, layered in his hair and light on his cheeks and nose. "Were you hurt?" she asked.

"Nah. Just a cut. Healed up already."

"You wouldn't lie to me, would you?"

"No, ma'am. I'm always honest."

She wasn't entirely satisfied. Steve was a horrible liar; his tells were plain as day, especially for someone as perceptive and well-skilled in espionage as Peggy was. But she decided not to press the matter, opting instead to enjoy another moment in his embrace while she could have one. They were silent for a while, the noise of the camp around them quieting as the men bedded down for another long, wintry night. Peggy closed her eyes again, struggling to ignore the storm of emotions in her heart, the cruel accusations in her head. The hurtful words. The trouble all around them. It wasn't so hard to forget it, not as hard as it could have been, because he was there, and he was safe. He was with her. _The right partner._

"You're shivering," Steve whispered into her hair.

"Then hold me tighter."

He did, and she all but melted into his arms.


	4. Chapter 4

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence, dramatized scenes of war)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** I didn't make this up about Operation: Avenger. Well, I made up the reason why it was called that, but it was called that :-).

**ABOVE AND BEYOND**

**4**

"_Most people don't realize, but the term 'the First Avenger' was applied to Captain America well before the Avengers ever formed. He earned it in February, 1944 along the Winter Line in Italy when he took it upon himself to break the HYDRA blockade that had been choking most of the region. Morale was extremely low; the Allied offensive in Italy hadn't been going well, and with the bad weather, the men were hurt and tired and longing for some hope. Having Captain America fight for them, bust through the German line like an avenging angel… It really meant something to the men of the 107__th__, to everyone trapped in that endless winter. The brass denied it, but the second offensive of the Battle of Rome was even named Operation: Avenger. That's what Captain America did for the troops. It went beyond just getting the supply chain restored. He restored their faith."  
><em>– Richard Samson, World War II historian, 2013

_February 12__th__, 1944_

Peggy awoke with that peculiar sensation of not knowing exactly where she was. Wherever she was, she was warm, really warm, for the first time in what felt like forever. It felt positively marvelous, so wonderful in fact it was difficult to cling to consciousness with the heat dragging her back down into peaceful slumber. Sleep clouded her mind, and she was content simply to let it. But she'd never been one to indulge for long.

She opened her eyes, and it became rather obvious why she was so warm.

"Bloody hell," she whispered.

Steve was laying on his side next to her. His arm was wrapped possessively around her, holding her close to his chest, and hers were tangled up tightly along the furnace of his body to keep him near. His blanket was covering them both. And he was still asleep. The first light of dawn was poking through the front flap of his tent, setting his hair aglow, glinting off the hints of gold in his eyelashes. Even though she knew she shouldn't, she couldn't help but stare, feeling him breathe so close to her, lost in this. He was beautiful. She wondered (not for the first time) how no other woman could have seen that before her, because he'd been like this before, too. Before the height and strength and physique. His lips were slightly parted, dry from the cold and from breathing through them. Maybe she could kiss…

_No._ This was bad enough as it was. _Extremely_ bad. If anyone caught them like this… What had happened last night? Memories were sluggish to return, but she recalled him holding her outside in the cold. The wind and snow had picked up, and he'd ushered her into his tent, where they'd talked for quite some time. It had felt unreasonably _good_ to unburden herself to him, to let her worries loose, to be herself rather than this stiff, unfaltering force trying to hold SSR together in these deplorable conditions. It had been weeks since they'd last seen each other, and the words came and came, his about his concerns over HYDRA winning the war and SSR losing ground, hers about frustrations with Anderson, with the situation. At some point when it had gotten rather late, they'd grown quiet, listening to the wind cutting through the camp and tearing at his tent. He'd sat close to her, the only source of warmth in the whole damn world, and she'd sunk into it whole-heartedly with a promise to him and to herself that she'd leave in a minute.

Obviously she hadn't. Peggy squirmed slightly, trying to dislodge the heavy weight of his arm. The material of his bedroll was getting bunched up underneath her, the snow so hard beneath the layers of canvas and fabric that it was practically ice. There had to be a way to extricate herself from this situation, to get out before anyone saw her, before–

"Mornin'."

Peggy looked up and saw hazy blue eyes staring at her. There was a distinct lack of understanding in them, a contented, comfortable malaise. But that didn't last. It was like a bolt of lightning jolting him, the sudden realization that this wasn't right. "Oh, geez!" Steve sat up quickly, recoiling from her as if she'd suddenly turned into some sort of monster. He flushed with embarrassment and (she could hardly believe it) checked his uniform and hers and her coat like he was making sure they were still dressed. Like something untoward could have happened between them. Of course it hadn't (not that she hadn't wanted it). She might have lost track of time and foolishly allowed herself to fall asleep in his arms, but she wasn't that stupid. "Did I… Did we…"

"Captain," she chastised, irritated by the implication and his doubt in her sensibilities _and_ the fact that her damn sensibilities had ensured _nothing _had happened. Her glare said what she couldn't. _Of course we didn't!_

If Steve blushed any more, his face would be permanently red. "Sorry. Shouldn't have…"

"It's alright," Peggy said quickly, trying to be quiet. There was only a thin layer of canvas between them and the rest of the Howling Commandos. Her reputation was hinging upon that thin layer. And her quick thinking to get herself out of his tent before anyone saw her. She smoothed her hair – _I must look a fright!_ – and pulled down her coat over her rumpled uniform. Steve seemed completely petrified, staring unabashedly at her with his cheeks still ridiculously red and his hair (adorably) sticking up all over. Obviously she was going to have to get them out of this. "You go out there," she whispered, "and get them up. When you've cleared the way, I'll–"

"You up, Cap?"

That was Dugan. Peggy blanched. Over the thundering of her heart, she could hear the other Commandos shuffling around outside, gear rattling and voices gruff with sleep and grumpy. Footsteps crunched in the snow closer to the tent, and the faintest bit of shadow fell over the flap. She recognized the profile. "Steve? You okay?" Bucky called. "Ain't like you to be the last one up."

_Bloody hell!_

Steve's eyes were as wide as saucers. He was entirely useless, his mouth hanging limply open as he silently pleaded with Peggy to get them out of this mess. _Man with the plan indeed._ Peggy's mind raced as she glanced around the tent for a place she could hide (Lord, the indignity, but she wasn't above embarrassment to get the job done). She grabbed his blanket and tried to fold herself into it and into the remains of last night's shadows, gesturing at him to get out there and answer Barnes. She wouldn't put it past Bucky to just come into the tent. Nor did she think any of the Commandos would betray their trust if they found out she'd spent the night in their captain's company (even if nothing had happened). She was an agent of MI6 and a spy; sex (or the idea of it) was not exactly a foreign concept to her. But her credibility in this unit was already dangling by a thread, it seemed, and validation that she was sleeping with Captain America (_nothing happened!_) would damn well cut that thread completely. "Go!" she hissed when Steve still just stood there, staring at her like she was crazy. She gestured him away again.

"Steve? I know you're awake. What're you–"

Whatever Barnes was going to say was cut off by the very distinctive sound of heavy artillery careening through the air. Peggy's blood turned to ice at the roar of it overhead. A breath later it struck somewhere to their left. The ground shook beneath them, the explosion blasting over the tent and nearly knocking it down. There was another boom. And another. Before she realized what was happening, Steve threw himself over her, crushing them both to the hard and unforgiving ground. She cried out as he clenched himself around her, his huge frame entirely enveloping her. The half-demolished building to their left exploded again, the dark blobs of broken mortar flying overhead. The force of it ripped the tent away completely, and the next thing she knew, she was peeking in terror over Steve's shoulder up at the dark gray sky.

Steve grunted in her ear. A huge chunk of masonry hit him in the back as the debris rained down on them. Peggy winced as he tucked her head up into his shoulder and the nape of his neck. They were hardly given a chance to catch their breaths when the wreckage finally settled. More shells were descending upon the camp. Men were screaming in pain. Other men were screaming orders. The 107th was scrambling into formation. The Germans' attention turned finally to other sections of the base, offering their corner a reprieve.

Steve got to his feet. He swayed a second, looking frantically around the remains of the area. The building beside them had been a partial structure before, but now it was a field of rubble that had crushed the Commandos' tents. By some miracle, however, the men were unhurt. Barnes clambered out from under some smaller bricks, coughing and bleeding from his brow. Dugan rushed over to him to help him to his feet. Dernier, Falsworth, and Jones were already gathering and readying their weapons. "Goddamn HYDRA sons of bitches!" snarled Dugan as he grabbed for his Winchester. "Not nice to bomb a man before he's had his first cup a coffee. Cap?"

Steve snatched his shield from the ruin of his tent and slid it onto his right arm. He found his helmet as well and snapped it into place. He turned to Peggy, and all hints of the clueless, flustered boy were gone. The capable, battle-hardened commander was back. "Find shelter," he ordered. Then he was running through the wreckage, and the Commandos were following him. Bucky shared a worried look with her before doing the same.

Left alone, it took Peggy only another second to gather her wits. "Like hell," she muttered, and she ran to find a gun instead.

* * *

><p>The bombardment lasted for hours. Despite the snowy conditions and relatively poor visibility, the Germans shelled the hell out of their camp again. More buildings came down. Things were burning. Men were injured, dying, flooding the already strained aid station. It was chaos. It took Phillips, Anderson, and the company commanders and captains quite some time to coordinate a counter-offensive, given the men were cold and terrified and quickly losing faith. HYDRA pushed in from the left, sweeping down from the hills and driving across the snowy field with their tanks and their trucks in the front, their troops following behind. The long-range guns stationed along SSR's perimeter fired back, the Howitzers relentlessly battering the enemy line as it crawled closer. They were doing a good deal of damage but not enough to stop the advance. When an attack became feasible, Phillips quickly ordered it, and Captain America and the Howling Commandos led the troops in crossing the snow-laden field.<p>

The crackle of gunfire was thunderous, hundreds of US infantry following Steve, using his footsteps to guide them. Peggy watched from the town when she could, when she wasn't needed to help coordinate the battle from behind the lines. As more and more men were injured, she went to work, aiding the medics as they brought the wounded soldiers back from the front to the base. She stayed close, partly because she was an expert at logistics and could manage keeping a calm atmosphere while directing the triage efforts, but mostly because she was terrified one of these poor men would be Steve or Barnes or one of the Commandos. As she acted a liaison between the company commanders laying in reserve, the aid station, and Phillips, she checked faces where she could. Men were coming back shot, broken, so many but not the Commandos. She knew in her heart that even if she didn't find Steve or the others among the wounded flooding the aid station, it didn't mean they were safe. The HYDRA weapons always made it difficult to determine who was being killed in action. Vaporizing a man like that, erasing him from existence with nothing to even mark how he'd died, no remains to send home to loved ones… It was pure evil. Peggy inwardly shuddered at the thought.

The day wore on, and the battle raged with it. HYDRA was tenacious, withdrawing only to attack again from a different angle. Captain America was even more so, reacting quickly and efficiently. SSR had isolated HYDRA's long-range weapons on one of the hills a few miles away, and Major Hall with his artillery was laboring to get them cleared off the high ground. That had at least eased the bombardment somewhat, and they'd desperately needed the reprieve. The camp was in shambles. Any effort to move supplies, to coordinate the men, to reinforce their failing defenses, was often destroyed or at least interrupted by heavy fire. So far the line of soldiers out in the snowy field had kept HYDRA back. But they were wearing. SSR's line was thinning. Peggy couldn't be sure, but she'd seen through binoculars that the enemy was, as well. At this point, it was simply going to be a contest of who could last longer. The wind was sharp and driving, and the snow was coming harder. Aiming in these conditions was difficult, and more and more of HYDRA's shots were flying wide and off course, pounding into the fields and hills rather than the town. That was just as well; there wasn't much more they could stand to lose.

"Agent Carter!"

Peggy leaned up from the man she was treating with the surgeons and field medics. She saw a soldier run through the smoke. He was filthy and bloodied and shivering. "Agent Carter! Colonel Phillips is callin' for you!"

She wiped her hands on a torn up sheet and followed the young man through the lines of wounded soldiers in the snow along the road. Another shell thundered overhead, making everyone duck, but again it was poorly aimed and struck the ground outside the town. Still, the explosion was booming, aching in Peggy's ears. "Go, Private," she calmly ordered the boy when he was frozen with fear in front of her. The young man nodded, shaking like a leaf, but continued on his way. The men in reserve were struggling to clear debris enough for trucks to get through to carry munitions to the front line and wounded back. The road was narrowed by the masonry piled high and damage this extensive. They wove their way through it, heading toward the rear of the town where the house containing the command center was miraculously still standing and relatively undamaged. Peggy excused her escort and rushed inside.

Phillips was yelling. She'd never seen him so rattled. His coat was covered in new snow, and his face was flushed from the cold. Obviously he'd been outside, probably trying to get a view of his troops' efforts. "Get word to Commandos to keep pushing them back," he was ordering to one of the radio operators. "I saw them reform half a mile southwest. And get Major Crawley on the wire. I need a report of Charlie Company's strength at the flank. Are we holding them?"

"I believe we are, sir," Anderson replied, almost begrudgingly, "but I don't know for how much longer."

"Anderson, so help me God, if you pitch retreat to me again, I'll – Carter! Where the hell have you been?"

"Sir, we are taking significant casualties," Peggy gasped after saluting. "We're out of supplies. We can't treat the wounded coming in."

"Numbers?"

"About an additional two hundred," she said. "Many seriously." It wasn't good. Nearly half the battalion was injured or dead at this point, and with more and more coming back from the line wounded, their forces would soon dwindle to nothing. She glanced at Anderson, anticipating his comment but swallowing down her anger and venom because now was neither the time nor the place. "I don't believe retreat is a viable option. We don't have the resources to extract so many injured."

"What about munitions?"

The story there was not much better. "I've taken recent inventory. We're not going to be able to take much more of this," Peggy answered gravely. "Major Hill informed me that they cannot continue a heavy fire for much longer."

"Are HYDRA's guns off that hill?"

Peggy shook her head. "Not entirely, sir. But their numbers are diminished."

Phillips turned to the radio operators. Howard was there with them and had been for the duration of the fight. Peggy supposed Phillips keeping him in the command house served the dual purposes of keeping Stark safe and keeping him busy with attempting to maintain and repair their floundering radio equipment. Peggy shared a brief glance with the inventor, who was filthy and knee deep in a mess of wires and parts. "Relay orders to Major Hill," Phillips said. "Tell him to clear the hill right now. Make every goddamn shot count. We need those guns destroyed!"

"Sir, yes, sir!" responded one of the operators.

"Sir, reports coming in from Captain Randall, sir! He says they gotta fall back!" one of the other operators yelled.

Phillips' jaw clenched. "Son, you get back on that radio and you tell Captain Randall that _no one_ falls back. That line holds or we're done for, you hear? Forget about retreat. We can't cut across that field with HYDRA raining hellfire down on us." The kid blanched, nodded, but went back to it.

Howard twisted two wires together, which was likely not the optimal solution for repairing them. He was shocked of course, which led to a litany of swearing and him stuffing his smarting fingers in his mouth for a moment. "Not that we're retreating, Colonel, right?"

"No chance in hell," Phillips resolutely declared. "Any word on Captain Rogers?"

"N-no, sir," the radio operator responded. "It's real confused out there. I can't get a clear read on what's going on."

"Keep trying to raise him."

"We _are_ trying," Howard responded irately. He gestured to the mess. "I know I'm good, but I can only work with what I have. And what I have is a pile of shit, frankly!"

"You invented a flying car, Stark," Phillips returned with just as much annoyance in his tone. "I think wiring a bunch of batteries together should be within your capabilities."

Howard's face tightened, and he nearly stood from the mess to get in Phillips' face. Tempers were wearing, and they were wearing fast. Peggy interceded. "The Commandos' radio man is down, Colonel," she quietly reminded.

Phillips turned back to her, not appeased with that explanation. "Then find somebody else who knows something! We're goddamn blind back here with the weather like this. I can't get a clear view of the front, and I need to know if Rogers thinks they can win this."

"Aye, sir," the radioman working with Stark worriedly said.

Phillips turned back to Anderson. "If we can hold them, we'll hold them."

Anderson wasn't comforted. He was grinding his teeth if the rhythmic flexing of his jaw was any indication. His dark eyes flashed with anger. "If Rogers thinks he can hold this? With all due respect, sir, Rogers isn't even a true officer! We're dying out here, and you're basing our defense around what a chorus boy can do."

Biting her tongue was all Peggy could do to keep herself calm. Her patience was at an end. This was perhaps the most serious situation SSR had encountered. This engagement was extremely dangerous, blindingly difficult, and they stood a very real chance of being completely destroyed at the hands of HYDRA today, and _this _man felt it was more important to assert himself over Captain America out of what she feared was plain, old-fashioned jealousy. Phillips didn't hold himself back as well as she did. "Watch your tone, Major! I don't have the time or patience for your insubordinate bullshit! And I don't want to have to relieve you of duty, but I will, make no mistake!"

"I meant no disrespect, Colonel, but you have to see that this battle is lost!"

A blast of blue sizzled as it struck one of the buildings adjacent to the command house. Peggy didn't even flinch, staring hard at Anderson. "If Captain America is still fighting," she said firmly, "then there's a chance." _You have no idea how much of a chance there is._

"If he wants to fight, then let him," Anderson snapped. "Sound the retreat. Let him and the Howling Commandos keep them busy and extract the battalion to the south. The weather will cover us."

Peggy was aghast, both that Anderson would so crassly suggest that Steve and his men be used as human shields and that their injured should be summarily left behind. There was so simply no way they could transport hundreds of men as worn down and beaten as they were. "And leave the wounded?"

"Secure every man we can, but for God's sake, this position is _not_ defensible! It never was! If they're bearing down on us, let the men hold them while we pull out–"

Phillips glared viciously at Anderson. "I told you to not–"

"Colonel Phillips! Colonel!" A young GI ran up, winded and filthy. He saluted, scrambling to catch his wind at the same time.

The group of them stared at the soldier impatiently until Phillips barked, "What? What?"

"Radios aren't working right, sir," the young man explained, as if they weren't well aware of that fact. Howard growled in frustration, throwing down his work with disdain like he was washing his hands of it before coming closer to listen more carefully. "Had to run all the way here. Captain Rogers… He said they're driving them off. HYDRA's withdrawing, mile across the field already to the west. They're falling back, sir! He wants to know your orders."

Peggy's heart shuddered in relief. She couldn't help closing her eyes and looking away, stuffing her reddened, chapped hands into the pockets of her coat to hide their shaking. _Steve's alive. He's okay. He beat them back._ It was nearly overwhelming, and she breathed deeply through her nose of the frigid, snowy air to cool her thundering pulse and get some control over herself.

Phillips was thankful as well, though he was far too weathered and experienced a soldier to let it show much. He paused, and his face softened ever so slightly. He took off his helmet and ran a hand through his hair. "Tell him to get everyone back. We don't know enough about what's in those hills to chase HYDRA into them."

Thankfully, Anderson had nothing to say about that. It was sound logic. Pull back and regroup. Get a better idea of their own situation before potentially launching a counterstrike or even a retreat. Fortify their own encampment. The sound of gunfire was quieting from a near constant buzz to an occasional, staccato burst, growing less and less often by the moment. Suddenly she could hear again. The shouts of the soldiers. Men moaning. A few occasional loud booms of the Howitzers and those further away of HYDRA cannon still trying to pummel them. The crackle of nearby fire was louder, the flames spitting as the snowfall tried to smother them. _It's over. We pushed them back. They're retreating._

The whizz of something coming closer was like a whisper and then a shriek and finally a roar. "Get out!" someone shouted, and Peggy grabbed the man closest to her (who happened to be Anderson) and shoved him out the door and down into the snow. The others scattered. A German shell hit the house. The force smashed over them with all the power of a freight train. Peggy grimaced, covering her head as the explosion raged around them. There was a wave of unbearable heat followed by a rain of debris. Peggy couldn't think or breathe, couldn't do anything by wait to be crushed.

But she wasn't.

She chanced opening her eyes and raised her head and found herself staring into pale smoke and snow. There was coughing. A few forms covered in dust and snow moving. One was Howard, sputtering and scrambling free of the rubble to reach for the other soldiers still crushed under the wreckage. Anderson recovered faster than Peggy did, practically shoving her aside to get to his feet. "Colonel," he gasped, scrambling through the shattered bricks and wood and debris to reach Phillips' prone, crumpled form. Peggy lurched after him, crawling through the mess and not caring one bit as sharp shards of broken wreckage cut her palms and knees and snagged her clothes. She helped Anderson lift the huge section of bricks off Phillips' back.

Terror left her reeling a second before she realized Phillips was breathing. But he'd struck in the head. There was blood matted in the salt and pepper hair, thick and viscous. "We need medics!" she bellowed over the din. "Now! Medics!"

Anderson pressed his fingers to Phillips' neck. "He's got a good pulse." He stood and went to the others who'd been caught in the explosion, checking their prostrate bodies for the extent of their injuries. One of them was dead. Peggy looked away, instead staying beside Phillips' and staring at his dirt-streaked face. The snow came down and coated them all, and she wondered how steep the price would be for surviving this day.

* * *

><p>It was late afternoon by the time the US forces pulled out of the field. The soldiers came back, victorious, but the toll was obvious and devastating. Many were helping the lesser injured back to base. Their eyes were all empty, bereft of relief or pride one might associate with a significant win such as this. Their faces were haggard and pale under the grime. Their rifles were practically dragging as much as their feet. They might have repelled HYDRA's assault, but they were all quite aware of how serious the situation was, now more than ever. Supplies were down to nothing. The enemy could be reforming, strengthening his lines, tightening the blockade and planning another strike at any moment. This victory was really only prolonging the agony of defeat.<p>

They moved Phillips to the aid station. The building housing the wounded had been mostly demolished, and the men who'd been in reserve weren't as exhausted and so were working to erect more tents and build some sort of shelter. The surgeons were struggling, focusing on the most severely injured, patching up the less serious wounds and sending those luckier men on their way to make room. The Colonel was given one of the beds, of course. The physician had taken one look at his head wound and adopted an expression of dismay. "There's nothing I can do," he said, examining the swollen skull beneath the bleeding laceration. "He'll either come out of it, or he won't. We just have to wait and see."

Peggy wasn't pleased with that prognosis. Howard kept looking to her for something. She didn't know what, but _something_ to make this better. She had nothing. There was nothing to make anything better. Normally being lost for a plan frustrated her greatly. Normally inaction, futility, and despair aggravated her. However, she was so cold and exhausted that she was becoming rather numb, and her normal indignant drive to act was not to be found. She sadly watched Phillips breathe evenly, a few of the medics wrapping his head in some makeshift bandages. A great deal had been lost today, but this felt more monumental. SSR was now without its commanding officer in the worst possible situation, when it needed strong, steady, wise leadership more than ever. With Phillips unconscious or comatose or _worse_, someone would need to take the reins.

Anderson was, predictably, ready to do just that. Captains and majors (those left alive and well enough to participate) were gathered outside the makeshift hospital. Peggy stepped closer to see Anderson addressing them, Howard following with his jaw clenched and his eyes icy. "I want everything ready. Round up supplies, guns, equipment, _anything_ you can salvage. We're pulling out of here ASAP. Get the wounded prioritized by those most likely to survive the trip, and get those loaded into the trucks we have left. Anyone who can march marches. We leave at first light tomorrow morning."

Peggy wondered momentarily at the wisdom in what she was about to do. She truthfully considered not doing it at all, but lying down in defeat was not within her. It never had been, and she prayed it never would be. "Major Anderson, those were not Colonel Phillips' standing orders," she reminded.

"Noted, Agent Carter," Anderson tightly said. "Now see to helping delegate these wounded. Your training as a field nurse should serve you well in doing that."

It was hardly a step above completely demeaning her. Any politeness in his voice was completely forced. Peggy bristled with the dismissal, but she'd expected it. And she wasn't so easily brushed aside. "Sir, you can't do this. We were ordered to reinforce the Fifth Army here. Withdrawing will mean–"

"Any doubt that the enemy knows our location was pretty much destroyed this morning," Anderson retorted. "If they're smart, they'll regroup and pound us again before we have a chance to move. I know I would. They know we're beat."

"Yes, but–"

"I'd have us hauling ass the hell out of here right now if I could," Anderson seethed. "It's a risk to spend another moment trapped here."

He had a point. That was the worst part. As much as Anderson was the very definition of an ass, he was trying to save the battalion. He was acting in what he perceived to be their best interests. Sacrificing the few to save the many. But it wasn't _right_, not when the wounded men could perhaps be saved. Not when Phillips had ordered them to maintain their position. Not when the rest of the Allied forces entrenched along the Winter Line were perhaps relying on them to protect the flank and stay solid against HYDRA's assault. It didn't matter how strained they were. There were hundreds of men still capable of fighting, admittedly against an enemy whose size and strength were an unknown, but they weren't defeated yet. Anderson wanted to run up the white flag and run when they could still make a stand.

Anderson glared at her, like he was daring her to make another comment and question him again. Peggy lifted her chin, quite prepared to take the challenge. "We're not quitters, sir," she said plainly.

"No, but we're not stupid, either, and you can either assist in this, Agent, or I can have you removed from this meeting."

Peggy gritted her teeth. Howard's hand brushed against hers, and she looked at him to see a small shake of his head. Subtle as it was, it was a bold move, but it stayed her anger. There wasn't much she could do. Anderson was technically in charge, the highest ranking of the remaining officers. With Phillips incapacitated, she had no clout, no standing to have her voice heard. No supporter. So she stifled the rest of what she wished to say.

Anderson glanced at the assembled officers with a hard edge in his eyes and a determined set to his shoulders. However, whatever he was about to say was interrupted by a murmur of noise down the road. The men turned as the ruckus got closer and louder. Peggy peered through the heavily falling snow to the dark shapes of the soldiers gathered in the road. They were parting, making way. She saw why a moment later, when the dirty, beaten forms of the Howling Commandos approached. Dugan came first, Dernier flush against him as he helped the Frenchman walk. Falsworth and Jones followed, each looking haggard but hale enough all things considered. Behind them were Steve and Barnes. Steve was in the process of unsnapping his helmet and pulling it off. His uniform was filthy, his hair thick and dark with sweat. He was walking… oddly. Not limping, per se, but his gait was unusual. Bucky was watching him with a dark and worried expression pinching his face.

The GIs continued to back up, watching Captain America reverently, parting sluggishly to allow the Commandos through to the field hospital. Dugan glanced back at Steve, who nodded curtly, and the large man proceeded to take Dernier inside the ramshackle tent. A few of the soldiers jumped forward to help. Steve himself came toward the assembled group of captains. His eyes flicked to Peggy, but only briefly, and she clenched every muscle in her body to stop herself from going to him. He released a long breath, struggling just a moment to stand to his full height. He saluted Anderson. "Major. The last of the men are off the field."

Anderson nodded. "As you were, Captain."

"I'd like to speak with Colonel Phillips, sir, if that's alright," Steve declared. Peggy winced; obviously he hadn't heard.

Anderson narrowed his eyes. "Colonel Phillips is injured and unconscious. I've taken command."

Steve's eyes shifted to her again. She offered the smallest shake of her head and hoped he'd interpret that correctly. He did. And he went beyond what she'd expected (although, honestly, of course she should have anticipated that _this _would be his response). "Then I'll ask you. I'd like your permission to break the HYDRA blockade."

Anderson appeared flabbergasted. "You what?"

Steve pointed to the west. "The HYDRA battalion that came at us suffered some serious losses today. It had to have come from the blockade line. They came thinking they were going to put an end to us, so they didn't anticipate the resistance."

"You mean they didn't anticipate going up against Captain America?" Anderson stepped closer, like he was challenging Steve to agree with him.

Steve had a cooler head on him than most people realized. "Sir, we hit them hard today. Five hundred men came across that field at us, and less than half went back. I realize I can't say for certain, but that might mean the blockade line is weak. If you give me a company, I can break it."

"And then what, Captain?" Anderson returned, not in the least bit convinced. "You're going to march that company across the hills between those two blockade lines in these conditions? You won't make it! And even if you did–" Anderson seemed to realize his voice was rising in volume because he dropped his tone and stepped closer to Steve. "Even if you did, you have no idea what lies in wait on the other side of those hills. It could be a whole goddamn HYDRA division. Your company against potentially ten thousand men. I don't care who you are. Those aren't odds you can beat."

Steve stood taller still. There was a flash of anger in his eyes. "Sir," he said softly, "I've beaten long odds before."

"What, back in Brooklyn?" Anderson retorted. "Fighting off bullies in an alley doesn't really compare to this."

"You know what, _Major_?" Howard spat, and the same restraint he'd tried to impress upon Peggy pretty clearly failed him. "I've been watching you moan and whine and generally make a pain in the ass of yourself for weeks now. I don't know how things work here in the army, but if someone as petty and pathetic worked for me, I'd fire 'em in a second. Can't you see he's trying to help?"

Anderson whirled on Stark. That last shred of his control was wearing, as well. "Last I heard, Mr. Stark, you're a civilian contractor who is here on our good graces. When I want your opinion, I'll ask for it. Otherwise, shut your mouth."

"You smug bastard," Howard sneered, and he stepped closer like he was going to throw a punch. But Steve moved in front of him, blocking his advance and offering Howard a silent imploration that he not make a bad situation worse. Howard lowered his hand, unfurling his grimy fingers, and drew a deep breath through his nose to calm himself.

Steve turned back to Anderson. "Major, I know retreat seems like a good idea, but it's not. We can't withdraw. There's no way we can move the wounded across the hell we came through to get here. Our only hope is to break that blockade and reach the Fifth Army, and I'm telling you I can do it."

"My orders stand," Anderson said. "Retreat at dawn." He turned away, like the matter was closed for discussion.

"Then let me go," Steve called, stepping after him. "I'll go alone if I have to. One man can slip through more easily than a hundred." Steve drew a deep breath and lowered his voice, too. "Give me a day. If I'm not back with help, if the blockade's still there, then do what you think is best."

"No, Captain."

"Goddamn it, let me try! I know it can be done. I know I can do it!"

Anderson stopped. He pivoted and stared at Steve. "You really do have a ridiculous amount of faith in yourself, don't you." It wasn't a question. And it definitely wasn't a compliment. Steve held his ground, staring back.

A tense moment of silence followed. It seemed like everything would fall apart then and there. The weight of weeks spent starving and suffering as their support dwindled. The weight of ice and snow and death. The weight of the awful knowledge that they had very little chance of survival. It was all coming down hard and shattering them.

Howard's voice came loud and clear. He turned to the men, addressing _them. _"Captain America wants to break the blockade. Captain America wants to fight for us! I think we should give him a chance! Huh? What do you think, boys? Let the Cap try!"

A round of cheers went through the group. It was loud, raucous, the first sound of _life _from these defeated soldiers in weeks. Everyone was shouting. Everyone was watching them: the other captains, soldiers, medics… _Everyone_. And when the noise died down, it seemed the entire camp was waiting, holding its breath, daring to hope. Howard was smart. Giving the men an opportunity to come to Steve's side was wise. Anderson wouldn't dare dismiss Steve now, not if he wished to maintain the loyalty of the troops. Captain America was their hero. Therefore, the idea of turning him down when he was offering what he was offering... That was ill-advised. Anderson might have a full-out mutiny on his hands.

The major finally sighed slowly, relaxing his face. He held up a single, grimy forefinger. "One day. And I'm not going to guarantee it. If I feel like I need to take these men out of here, I will. Understood, Captain?"

Steve raised his chin. "Yes, sir. Understood. Permission to be excused, sir."

"Granted." Steve turned, glancing at Peggy and then Bucky, before starting to gently push his way back through the men. The tired soldiers surrounding him reverently shuffled aside to grant him passage. They were talking as he passed, some cheering anew. Steve's shield shone in the dull, dying light of day, the paint scraped and burnt, but it was still bright despite the marring, and they were all watching that, _clinging _to it like a sign of hope. That was what it was. A symbol of hope. The Commandos flanked their captain, Bucky unrepentantly shooting Anderson a glare that normally would have landed him in trouble. Peggy didn't bother excusing herself, didn't care what anyone thought anymore. She followed, and Howard followed her, edging their way through the throng of men to get to Steve's side.

Once they were far enough away from the medical tent and the huge group of infantry, Steve released a halting breath through his teeth. Bucky grasped his shoulder and pushed their small group into the shadows beside the hollowed remains of one of the bombed out buildings. "Goddamn arrogant son of a bitch," he snarled, glancing over his shoulder back at Anderson.

Steve leaned against the remains of a brick wall, doubling over slightly with his hands tight on his knees. "He's trying to do what he thinks is right," he said wearily. Peggy stared at him, certain now that he wasn't well. This was more than simply the strain of the fight. They were lines of pain etched into his face, tightness around his eyes and lips. Nausea burned in her stomach.

Howard looked massively dismayed as he beheld Captain America in a rare moment of weakness. "I'm really hoping I didn't just promise a load of bullshit, Rogers." Steve glanced at him, a bit irritated, but Howard eyes were teeming with concern and that softened his scowl. "Did I?"

"No," Steve insisted, trying to straighten to his full height but not quite making it. "I got this."

"Cap," Jones said. He had a rather large cut on his jaw and another dirty bandage on his arm. "You're not serious. We always said you were crazy, but going out there alone? It's suicide." Steve looked up at him, his mussed, filthy hair following onto his brow. Jones took one look at his captain's expression and his own melted into dismay. "Jesus."

"There's no choice," Steve responded. He was grinding his teeth as he finally succeeded in straightening all the way. "We can't withdraw. Can't stay here. It's the only option. Bust the blockade and get aid from the Fifth Army."

"Anderson may be bastard, but he's right, Rogers. It's a damn longshot," Falsworth reminded. He, too, seemed troubled by Steve's haggard appearance and suddenly strained breathing. The Brit sighed, gripping his rifle tighter. "Bloody rock and a bloody hard place."

Steve looked at Howard. "Any chance of raising the Fifth Army?"

Howard shrugged nonchalantly, but his eyes were regretful and frustrated. "We haven't had much success. The equipment is pretty solidly fried."

"Keep at it," Steve ordered. "I know you can rig something together, Stark." He smiled a little slyly. "Build something, because we sure as hell need it."

"Steve, we can't even confirm they're still where we think they are," Peggy said, exasperated and increasingly disturbed by this plan. The gravity of what he was proposing was terrifying. "If they're not there or can't get aid to us…"

"I know," Steve responded evenly. "Have to take that chance." He turned to his men. "Gabe, Monty, I need supplies. As lightweight as you can get 'em. Guns and grenades. Hurry."

Jones still didn't look pleased, glancing once at Falsworth as if to gauge his own reaction from the other man's. However, Falsworth was resigned, nodding grimly. Jones muttered another curse under his breath. "Aye, Cap."

"Stark, you have anything he can use?" Falsworth asked.

Howard sighed, planting his hands on his hips as he thought. "Maybe. I'll have to go check the remains of my four-star accommodations. But there might be something…" His glazed eyes narrowed and he nodded. "Yeah. Maybe."

"Good." The two Commandos and Howard went quickly to do as Steve asked.

Bucky was grinding his teeth hard enough to crack his jaw, it seemed. He moved closer to Steve, a thousand complaints and denials and angry refutations and _pleas_ swimming in his eyes. But he didn't say any of them save one. "You're not goin' anywhere until–"

"I know," Steve gasped again. He regarded Peggy. More and more the stoic strength of Captain America was falling away. "But not here. Not in front of the men. Peg, I need…"

She realized what he was asking. A mixture of horror and worry rushed over her, surprisingly hot in the cold air. It took a moment for her beleaguered brain to kick into gear. "There's a supply tent still standing a bit down the road."

Steve was pushing himself upright at that. He wavered a little but got his balance and starting walking under Peggy's direction. Barnes was ridiculously tight against him. If he was any closer, he'd be outright supporting Steve as he walked. They moved slowly. It was obvious Steve was losing his strength more and more with each step, and he was only pushing himself because wanted to get away, get out from under the countless eyes of the camp before he truly collapsed. Peggy's heart was pounding as she led the way. It seemed to take forever to cross the road and get through the tents and rows of wide-eyed men and reach the tiny nook. It was an officer's tent, and inside were some of the final crates of munitions. Thankfully, they got there without much notice (at least, without anyone seeing that Steve was hurt).

Once inside, Steve immediately sank down onto a crate. Now he was shaking, plain as day, and shaking hard. His hand was pressed hard over his left side, and Peggy noticed that his glove was wet and red. "Jesus," Bucky said, crouching in front of him. "How bad it is?"

Steve's face was tight with a grimace. "'s alright," he gasped. "Got shot."

"Ya think? So stupid," Bucky hissed, his voice rough with anger and grief. "Walkin' all this way, pretendin' you're fine when you're not. So goddamn _stupid._"

Steve smiled weakly. "You always… know just what to say to make me feel better, Buck."

Bucky gave Steve a withering look that did very little to disguise his worry. "Dunno what I did to piss God off so much to get saddled with this," he grumbled. He reached down and pulled Steve's hand away. His face scrunched up in dismay. "My cross to bear. When did this happen?"

Steve grunted. "Not sure."

As Bucky moved the hole in his uniform up and away, the amount of blood became rather disturbing. He paled, flustered and frightened, and looked back toward Peggy almost helplessly. Peggy summoned some measure of calm from somewhere, swallowing down the tightness in her throat. "Get his uniform off," she ordered quietly. "We need to get pressure on it."

Barnes stood quickly, pulling Steve's shield from his back and propping it against another of the crates. He undid the buckles of the shoulder harness before fumbling for the zipper and pulling it down and then the top of Steve's uniform after it. He also stripped Steve's belt and gloves. The light was poor in the tent, long with the first gray shadows of another starless, moonless night, but even that didn't hide the mess of Steve's chest. "God," Bucky whispered. Peggy couldn't breathe. There was hardly a spot on his torso that wasn't black and blue and mottled with bruising. His right shoulder was particularly bad, possibly dislocated. There were aged wounds, yellowed with healing, and a laceration between two ribs on his right side that looked days old and partially scabbed but recently agitated. The gunshot wound had been from a fairly large caliber gun, if the damage and amount of bleeding was any indication. He was lucky it was only a graze. Otherwise, in all likelihood, Steve would have been killed, super soldier or no.

Bucky was caught between fury and utter horror. His voice cracked. "Damn it all to hell, Steve. Why didn't you tell me about this? You've been fightin' like this? You kept lyin' right to my face!"

"Sorry. Had to." Steve closed his eyes in consuming fatigue.

"Bullshit! Just like you have to do this, right? Go out there and win the war all by yourself? I told you! You're not a one-man army!" The bitterness in Bucky's voice was cutting.

"Sorry, Buck," Steve said again, wincing now not just from the physical pain but from the brunt of Bucky's hurt and anger. Bucky gritted his teeth and shook his head at Steve. Steve looked up at him, and another scene passed before Peggy's eyes. Another moment in their lives that had undoubtedly happened dozens of times before. In Brooklyn. Dark alleys and schoolyard bullies. How often had Bucky stood just like this with Steve beaten up and bloodied in front of him, scared and desperate to make Steve see reason? It hurt to wonder. "I'm alright," Steve insisted again. He swallowed thickly. "Just… I just need you two to patch me up before anyone notices. I can still fight."

"Like hell," Bucky snapped harshly. He looked at Peggy, and that yanked her from her thoughts. "We got sulfa? Bandages?"

Sadly she shook her head. "There's nothing."

"Christ Almighty," Barnes whispered. "There's got to be something we can do."

"Go back to the aid station," Peggy said. "Find something we can use. Sheets. Coats. Anything. And we need light. Be discreet about it."

Bucky looked at her warily, and Peggy was briefly hurt and a tad offended that he would doubt her. But it was a reactionary thing rather than something rooted in reality because his face softened and he nodded. "Okay. Alright. Sit tight." He rushed back out of the tent.

Peggy didn't hesitate. She crossed the small distance between her and Steve in two steps and grabbed him as he sagged to the right. "Easy," she whispered. Despite being bare in the frigid air, his skin was warm to her chilled fingers and so smooth. She'd never really touched him before, not like this, not even when he'd emerged from the chamber during Project: Rebirth. She'd reached but had never touched. And this was _not at all_ the time or place for those sorts of thoughts, but they came unbidden, almost as if her mind was subconsciously giving her something else on which she might concentrate because the truth was too terrible.

Steve wasn't so hesitate to touch her, though. He wrapped his arms around her thighs, his fingers tightly clutching the dirty fabric of her uniform slacks. "Shouldn't do this," he murmured. His eyes were a bit glazed as he stared at the flap of the tent.

"Just stop," she chastised gently. She felt something warm oozing into her pant leg and looked down to see blood dripping down his back from the other end of the swath of the bullet wound. The shot had nearly ripped a chunk of his side away. It required a surgeon's stitching. "You need a doctor."

"No. It's fine, and I can't – they can't – can't let the guys see." Steve was slurring. It was disturbing how quickly he was deteriorating, as though now that he'd let down his defenses, this mask that was the invincible Captain America, he was completely falling apart. "Can't see me hurt. Countin' on me, Peg. They're countin' on me to break the blockade. Can't see that I'm hurt."

"Shhh," she hushed again. That was so foolish, foolish and valorous so damned noble and so absolutely _him_ that it broke her heart simply to hear it. Tears burned in her eyes, angry, helpless tears, and she tipped her face up the sloping canvas overhead to maintain her composure. She couldn't believe she was doing this. It was nonsense. Was this how Barnes felt every time Steve had talked him into helping him back up when he should have stayed down? It was impossible to say no to him. It was impossible to stop someone who wanted to do so much good. "Alright, Steve. It's alright."

He was bleeding very badly, and he could ill afford that. Before she thought twice, she was unzipping her own coat and shirking it. Her uniform jacket followed. Then the sweaters she had beneath that until she was in her white blouse. Her fingers shivered and shook as she unbuttoned it. Steve stared at her like he was crazy, like he didn't understand. Admittedly, when she'd allowed herself the occasional fantasy, this was _not_ how she'd envisioned this moment. But she managed to get her blouse off and dressed herself again as quickly as she could. Then she bunched up the shirt in either hand and knelt at Steve's side. He gasped and groaned when she pressed hard on the wound. "Stay with me," she softly ordered as his eyelids drooped and then fluttered.

"Tired," he moaned. "Dizzy."

"You're suffering from blood loss," she explained.

He pried his eyes open with seemingly great effort and blinked repeatedly like he couldn't focus. Then he did, and his lips quirked into a smile. "You're beautiful, Peggy." He brushed the backs of his fingers against her cheek. "So beautiful."

Despite the gravity of the situation and the horrors of the day, something inside her shivered when he said that. It was a euphoric thing that started in her heart and radiated to all parts of her. She'd been called beautiful before. But the way he said it, with complete, vulnerable adoration in his eyes… She reached up to take his hand. She pulled it away. "It's not the time for that, Captain," she said, trying to keep her tone light and even but acutely hearing every tremor in it.

"Got you…"

"Hold this. Hard." She put his hand on his front and held it there until he did it himself. Then she put more effort into pressing on the back of his flank where the bleeding was worse. He bit down a cry. She hated hurting him but didn't let up. She could feel his heart beating in his flesh, his lungs breathing beneath his ribs, his muscles quivering with pain. Doctor Erskine had mentioned that he believed the serum would vastly accelerate the rate at which Steve healed. She'd seen Steve shrug off bad hits before, but nothing quite this serious. And even the serum needed time, and if he had only a day to break that blockade, then the chance for rest was–

"Got you somethin'." Steve smiled a dopey smile, having gotten some control over his breathing. "You know, for Valentine's…"

"What?"

"The day after tomorrow."

Was he serious? _Of course he is. _"Steve, you…" Would there even _be_ a day after tomorrow? Would HYDRA come back in the morning to finish the job? Would he survive this crazy quest of his to break that blockade? Would they… And this was ridiculous. She had never cared for Valentine's Day. It was a day devoted to stupidity, to poetry and flowers and other frivolous nonsense invented to make those in love feel even better and those less fortunate feel even worse. But here he was, babbling about Valentine's Day at a moment like this… She pressed harder, trying to anchor herself as much as him. "Don't talk. You need to rest."

That dopey smile only got larger, filling his eyes with heat that almost seemed unnatural. He was downright delirious. "Had to get you somethin'." His accent, that of a Brooklyn street kid through and through, was more and more noticeable. "You're my sweetheart, ain't ya, Peg?"

She laughed to cover up how much it both thrilled her and hurt her to hear that. "This _really_ isn't the time to be asking me that. You're… and I can't…" Her eyes burned again with how much she _wanted_. "You're bloody hopeless," she whispered, and she didn't know if she was saying it to him or to herself.

"Peggy?"

"Yes, you idiot," she said, moving closer. "I'm your sweetheart."

He flushed with happiness, both embarrassed and enamored. Enamored with her. "I'll give it to you," he whispered. She dropped her reddened shirt. The bleeding had slowed anyway. "When I get back. Promise."

That was too much. She stood and cupped his face before she thought better of it and looked down into his eyes. His pupils were blown wide, his eyes a bright rim of blue around something dark and deep. She swept her thumbs over the prickle of his unshaven jaw, tipping his face up as she angled hers down. She was going to kiss him.

"I got the–"

Peggy let Steve go quickly, the cold coming back in a bolt that arced over her like lightning. She spun and saw Barnes at the flap of the tent, his arms loaded with a few sheets, the remains of a field aid kit, and a flashlight. He had both his pack and Steve's slung over each shoulder. It was too late to pull away, too late to explain. Barnes' eyes widened but he didn't say anything. Peggy could hardly hear over the pounding of her heart and the blood rushing between her ears. She didn't know why she was so ashamed. Why be ashamed of this?

And Bucky didn't seem to care at all. He came in, set all of his things down on the ground, and knelt at Steve's side. He flipped on the flashlight and positioned it against a crate so that it shone on them. "You know what pisses me off the most?" he said, reaching for the blood-soaked shirt Peggy had let fall.

"Ngh…" Steve groaned. "What?"

Bucky pushed it hard against the gunshot wound, and this time Steve did cry out. Peggy held him against her unthinkingly, but again, Barnes didn't seem to care. "The fact that you have always thought for some godawful reason which I can't ever understand that you have to go it alone. We've been friends our whole lives, and you honestly think I'm gonna let you march out there to do this by yourself?"

"Buck…"

"Here." Bucky shoved a full canteen up at Peggy. She took it with one hand, somehow managed to unscrew the top, and helped Steve drink. He did. He drank the whole thing down in seemingly two gigantic gulps. "Easy," Bucky admonished.

"Not small any more, Buck," Steve muttered after Peggy pulled the empty container away. She'd never heard him speak so roughly. He was almost unintelligible. "You don't gotta take care of me."

"Are you kidding me? I need to do it now more than I ever had to before."

"No."

"_Yes._ Now shut up. You can't win the war by yourself. You can't carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. I don't give a damn if you are Captain America."

Steve's face loosened from its agonized grimace. He smiled faintly. "I'm not carryin' it by myself. Got you guys."

Bucky shared another look with Peggy. She managed a breath, but it didn't much ease the ache in her chest. She threaded her fingers lightly through the snarled mess of Steve's hair, both for comfort and to keep him immobile as Bucky worked on his side. "Well, good. Then you won't mind me goin' out there with you. I want a shot at a medal this time. Sick of you hoggin' all the glory." There was no answer. "Steve?"

Peggy looked down where Steve's face was pressed against her chest. "He passed out," she said softly.

Bucky seemed torn with that. He went back to his efforts. "Good. Let him sleep an hour or two. Hopefully that won't cost us in the long run."

"Sergeant Barnes–"

"Agent Carter." She met Bucky's gaze. "I don't like it any more than you do. You know he's gotta do this. He's right. It's the only way. And if anyone can do it, it's him."

She did know that. All of that. But that didn't make this any easier to accept. They were silent as she held Steve and Barnes bandaged him up as best he could. It was stupid of her to ask, because she knew the answer. Still, she needed to hear it aloud. "You meant what you said about going with him?"

"'Course I did."

"And you'll take care of him?"

Bucky might have been affronted at the intimation that he wouldn't do just that. He seemed to realize Peggy wasn't questioning because she doubted him or didn't trust him. "I may be just a dumb kid from Brooklyn," he said softly, "but I know an awful lot about keeping him going. No need to worry."

That was comforting, at least as much as it could be. "You are far from a dumb kid from Brooklyn, Sergeant." Bucky seemed surprised at that but pleased. He offered her a grateful smile, which she returned. They didn't talk for a while after that. Eventually, with Peggy's help, Bucky bandaged up the worst of Steve's wounds. He remained blissfully unconscious through it, even when the two of them prodded his damaged shoulder and found it thankfully was not dislocated. They struggled to get his sweat and blood soaked uniform top back on him so that he wouldn't freeze. It took some maneuvering, but Barnes managed to push some of the crates aside so there was enough room on the icy ground to lay Steve flat. They put down a couple layers of canvas and then Steve's bedroll. Together they lowered him down onto it. Peggy draped his blanket over him and Barnes' as well. They stared down on him as he slept, wondering at what lay ahead, if this was all they could do. The best they could do. _It's what we must do._

"I'll stay outside. Keep the others away so he can sleep," Barnes volunteered. Peggy thought to tell him to rest himself, but one look at his tight eyes and clenched jaw was enough of an answer as to his chances of being able to sleep. He shouldered his pack and went to the flap of the tent. He paused there. "You know, he loves you." The words cut through to her soul. He looked over his shoulder at her, nothing but genuine honesty and concern for his best friend in his gaze. "He doesn't have the guts to tell you, but he does. I've known him for as long as I can remember, and I've never seen him like this about someone. When this is all over, just promise me you'll take him for that dance you were talkin' about."

It came so easily. "I promise."

Barnes nodded, didn't quite smile though it wasn't for lack of trying. He stepped outside.

Alone, Peggy shivered. It wasn't just the cold, though the cold was brutal. It was everything ahead of them. It was time draining away, these few precious hours where Steve could sleep and hopefully recover enough to be the hero he'd promised to be. She knew he was, but she was terrified. Absolutely terrified.

She settled down beside him, shifting him as much as she could considering how large and weighty he was. She scooted under the blankets, draping an arm over his belly. She stared down at his face in the shadows. She wanted to kiss him again. It was so strong, this desire to take this one thing because there might not be an after the war or even a day after tomorrow. There might not be anything. The dance she'd sworn and the life of which she was starting to dream. This might be it, and she wanted it like she hadn't ever wanted anything else. His lips were slightly parted again, a bit bruised, but they looked soft and warm and inviting. She could almost imagine what it would feel like, sweet and timid and true. Yes. She _would_ kiss him.

But the moments slipped away, and she didn't do it. She couldn't. He wouldn't kiss her back, and she wanted him to. He wouldn't remember it, and she wanted him to. It was silly and trite and nothing she valued, but she wanted him to take that kiss into battle, like some romantic token from his lady fair. From his sweetheart. Lord, that was pathetic, but their first kiss had to be something much more than a stolen secret in a frozen wasteland. So she banished that desire, no matter how fervent it was, and took comfort in being with him while she could be. She could hold him while he slept, at least, just like he'd done for her just the night before. She could hold him close so that he'd be just as safe and warm as she'd been. She could do that. She could.

She was Captain America's girl, so all of this was the least she could do for him.


	5. Chapter 5

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence, dramatized scenes of war)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Alright, everyone. Little reference to _Agent Carter_ in this one concerning Howard and his babies. One last chapter after this! Thanks for reading!

**ABOVE AND BEYOND**

**5**

"_It's not just about going above and beyond the call of duty. That's not what makes Steve such a hero. It's the fact that he does that without even realizing he's doing it. The alternative, not fighting with every scrap of what he has, that never occurs to him. It never did, not even when we were kids. Before he was Captain America, he stood up to bullies twice his size, gangs of them even, just because it was the right thing to do. I kept telling him to back down, but I don't think he even knows how. He gets hit. Falls down. Gets back up. Over and over again until the fight's won. Stubborn to a fault, but that's who he is. Everybody back home always felt bad for him the way he was. Me, I knew there was something special there, and now the whole world knows it. Honestly, I'm pretty damn proud of myself that I saw it first."  
><em>– James "Bucky" Barnes, 1944

_February 13__th__, 1944_

It was late. After midnight. Steve slept for three hours. It was probably an hour longer than he should have, but Bucky didn't have the heart to disturb him. Lord knew Steve needed it. The second they'd pushed HYDRA back earlier that day and he'd found Steve and the others on the battlefield, he'd known that something was wrong. Steve had kept that up damn brave face of his, but he'd seen right through it. Steve had never been a very convincing liar. The limping and the blood and the wincing hadn't helped his cause. And why he felt he needed to lie, to go off in private to lick his wounds so no one would see Captain America wasn't invincible… _Goddamn it, Stevie. _He'd been shot, for Christ's sake. He didn't have to pretend like it didn't matter or didn't hurt. And some of those other injuries were days old, healing but still worrisome. Bucky didn't know why he was surprised at all that Steve had hid them. He always had before the serum. Was it any wonder that he'd do it now? And he'd known Steve had been hurt; he'd just let Steve carry on with this nonsense because that was what he did now. Stood at Steve's side and let him be Captain America.

And now he was going to go off to save the battalion, bravely marching through snow and ice and plummeting temperatures to cut through an enemy blockade that could be thousands strong. It was insanity. Pure and simple. _Goddamn it._

"Alright there, Barnes?"

Bucky looked up from the snow mound outside the officer's tent. It was really dark now. Most of the camp's lights had been doused to conserve energy. It was snowing madly, coming down in a frozen, heavy deluge. They were soldiers from all over the United States, but everyone looked the same tonight. Tired and hunched, broken by the cold and the night and the snow. And Bucky was tired enough that he didn't recognize Falsworth, Dugan, and Jones at first. "Yeah," he ground out. He rose to his full height. His back and knees protested mightily. He was pretty banged up, too, and about as willing to admit it as Steve was. Hypocrisy at its finest. "Yeah. Fine."

Dugan didn't look convinced. He tipped his head toward the tent, a huge cloud of vapor in front of his face as he sighed. "Cap still sleeping?"

Bucky nodded. "Carter's in there with him."

If any of the men thought that was untoward, they didn't say. And they wouldn't. The Howling Commandos were far more than just a unit, more than a team, and Bucky knew not one of them would break Steve's confidence. Falsworth narrowed his eyes, shaking the snow from his beret before putting it back. "There's no more time."

Bucky nodded again. "I know."

"How bad is it?" Gabe asked.

There was no reason to lie. He swallowed through a tight throat. "He shouldn't be doing this."

That was enough of an answer for them. Gabe sighed and shook his head. He stuck his gloved hands into the pocket of his coat, fishing around for a moment. Their small group huddled together as a particularly harsh burst of wind blasted through the camp. Bucky leaned closer to Dugan subconsciously. He was so damn tired of shivering, of being cold. "Here." Bucky opened his eyes to see Gabe offering a lit cigarette to him. "Last one. I know you don't usually, but… makes you warmer for a second, anyway. Gotta take it where you can get it, right?"

Bucky stared at the cigarette, so tired and troubled by everything that had happened that he couldn't make sense of it. He'd never been much of a smoker, first because Steve's asthma hadn't been able to tolerate it and second because he didn't much like it himself. Still, he reached forward his hand and grasped the cigarette. He brought it to his chapped lips, took a drag, and kept it in for a moment to let the heat try and work its magic. It did. For a second, just as Gabe had said. Then he coughed it out. His lungs were so damn frigid and constricted from breathing the icy air that that paltry amount of heat was almost painful. He handed it back to Gabe, not sure whether or not to thank him. But he did, because this wasn't about one lungful of heat. "Thanks."

Gabe smiled faintly. He grabbed Bucky's shoulder and tugged him a little closer. It felt good, so Bucky let himself be pulled. God, he was scared. Not just of the monumental (and possibly insurmountable) task ahead of them. Steve was the Commandos' CO, and he was close to all of them in this way or that, but he was Bucky's friend first and foremost. None of them were usually given to displays of affection (or weakness, for that matter). Camaraderie, certainly, backslapping and jabs into ribs and good-natured teasing, but admitting they were frightened, at a loss, despairing… They never did.

But the thing was they didn't need to. Dugan nodded and Jones kept his warm hand tight on Bucky's shoulder and Falsworth's eyes were dark with devotion to this team and its cause, and that was Bucky needed to know they understood and cared. Steve had to do this, and not one of them would dishonor that choice. And Bucky had to go with him, and not one of them would question or doubt that, either. So they stood in silence for a while, waiting for their captain to wake up, sharing the last smoke in the whole of the Italian countryside. Dugan shifted his weight uncomfortably, trying to stay warm without coming closer to the circle of them. "Goddamn hate winter," he grumbled.

Bucky smiled despite himself. Gabe offered him the last bit of the cigarette, which he finished before tossing the remains of the butt into the snow. The little embers winked out in the white, extinguished before they even hit the ground. He mushed them with his boot anyway. "Request a transfer. I'm sure Phillips will send ya to the Pacific if you ask nice."

Falsworth rolled his eyes slightly. "Considering how much complaining we have had to endure from you over the last six months, Dugan, I highly doubt you'd find the heat any more agreeable."

"Rather roast alive than freeze my ass off." Dum Dum glanced at Falsworth out the corner of his eye. "And I don't complain. You make me sound like a broad."

"Is that to imply that women whine, Sergeant?" The cool voice behind them caused them all to turn. Carter was there, cheeks flushed rosy from the cold, eyes bright but narrowed.

Dugan paled a little. "No, ma'am." He added under his breath, "Some do, though."

Carter said nothing to that, though she undoubtedly heard it. She was all business again, stunningly beautiful despite her mussed appearance. Her face was impassive, stoic and tough, and the woman who'd watched in fear and worry as the man she loved suffered was completely gone, vanished like she'd never been there at all. Carter was sure something. Honestly, in a million years, Bucky would have never imagined Steve would snag a dame like her. Not that he didn't deserve her because he did. But she was, well… _had been_ out of his league. He was glad she was there, glad she was willing to risk her reputation on Steve like she was now and had been doing since Bolzano. Glad she'd been there for Steve to push him when Bucky himself hadn't been. It was weird letting someone else care for Steve like this, but Bucky was relieved to not be in it alone. And he knew that when Carter had promised to go dancing with Steve, she meant it. She wouldn't toy with him, demean him, or flat-out ignore him like most the girls back home had. Bucky was sure of that.

Carter regarded them all coldly at first, but her expression softened like she was recalling what loomed before them. She stepped aside slightly, her quick eyes centering on Falsworth. "Did you complete Captain Rogers' orders, Lieutenant?"

Falsworth nodded. Steve's pack was on the ground beside the tent, freshly stocked with ammunition for his Colt, grenades, and rounds for a Thompson rifle. Bucky's pack was equally loaded with supplies and ammo, more than he normally carried. "Anderson's probably noticed us plundering what's left of the munitions stores," the Brit declared unhappily.

"Let me worry about him. Did you take enough?"

"To take out an entire HYDRA division?" Dugan grumbled. "Not nearly enough ammo left for that."

Peggy shot him a withering look, but whatever she was going to say was interrupted by Steve himself emerging from the tent. He looked sleepy, with bleary eyes and flushed cheeks. He'd obviously combed his fingers through the mess of his hair, trying to smooth it. His uniform wasn't quite straight. That hole in his side where he'd been shot was still pretty obvious, especially since Bucky could see the white of the sheet he'd used to bandage it beneath the purpled fabric. He had his shield on his back and his helmet dangling from one hand. He blinked a couple of times, like he couldn't remember where he was or what had happened. Then he spotted his men, spotted Bucky, and that seemed to ground him.

What was left of the Commandos came closer to him, closing ranks literally and figuratively. Peggy stayed by his side as well, too near perhaps to be seen as anything other than what they all knew it was. "How are you feeling, Cap?" Jones asked.

Steve grimaced. "Like I'm ready to bust a blockade." His sheepish smile was damn infuriating. Bucky wanted to hit him. He could see Steve pulling himself together. His sleep had been restorative, no doubt about it, but he didn't look quite well. His cheeks were flushed, but the rest of him seemed very pale and frail. It was an expression that took Bucky back a year, an expression he didn't think Steve in this new, infallible body was capable of making.

Everyone else noticed it, too. "Cap." Dugan looked a tad desperate. He frowned under his mustache, his eyes hard and glimmering with frustrated displeasure. "Let us come with you. Come on. You shouldn't have to do this alone because Anderson's a stupid bastard."

"I'm not goin' alone," Steve responded simply, sharing a knowing look with Bucky. "And I need you guys here. You can do more good here. If things go to hell again, I need to know there are men here who can lead the fight or at least protect the retreat." Dugan looked like he didn't want to accept that. In fact, none of them looked like they wanted to accept it. And why should they? Their captain, their _friend_, was for all intents and purposes sacrificing himself on this crazy and probably unbeatable mission. It wasn't goddamn fair. But Steve had always said the same thing to him about that, whenever Bucky was the one who'd been down about Steve's bad health or poor social standing or anything else that went wrong in their lives that was beyond their control. _"Life's not fair, Buck. We do what we have to do."_

"I assume those are your orders then," Falsworth said glumly. He was making an admirable effort to appear satisfied with this (more of an effort than Dugan was making at any rate).

Steve nodded. "Protect the men," he affirmed. He glanced once at Peggy. "Do whatever Agent Carter thinks is best."

Another group of men would have bristled at that, or thought the worst of Steve and Peggy, or outright refused to submit themselves to a woman's command. But not the Commandos. Jones sighed, and Dugan grunted in resignation. "Don't like missing a fight," he declared.

Steve smiled sympathetically. He patted Dum Dum's shoulder. "I know."

"Stark said he had something for you," Falsworth announced. "I'll go get him moving."

"Thanks." The Brit turned and headed off into the curtains of snow. Steve rolled his shoulder a little, testing it, and he didn't even try to keep the frown from his face. Then he balled his right hand into a fist, stretching his arm and shifting his weight around. Grimaces and winces all the way. Everyone was watching him. Dugan and Jones. Carter, trying to seem nonchalant but with a desperate wish to make him stop glimmering wetly in her eyes. And Bucky. Steve seemed satisfied with his sorry state and looked right at him. "Are we ready?"

Bucky had never wanted to call Steve out on his bullshit quite so much. And he'd never been afraid to until now. Now it seemed like Steve's bullshit, all of his refusal to be anything less than what he thought the world needed of him, was all that was standing between a thousand men and disaster. He released a slow breath. "Are you?"

"Yep."

"Then let's do this."

* * *

><p>Just like that, Captain America was back. Just like that, all signs that he'd been shot, hurt, worn down, and wearied were gone. He was all strength again, poise and confidence and power. And it was a good thing. Despite the late hour, the troops were gathered along the main road of the town. Word that Steve was heading out had spread like wildfire, the only source of heat on this dark and snowy night. The men were lined up, quietly murmuring, watching with expectant eyes as the Howling Commandos gathered their gear and emerged from the back of the camp. They were waiting, waiting to send off their hero with all that remained of their hope. Friends supported friends, the wounded propped up, the broken down kept on their feet by the determination of their peers. Brothers carrying brothers. Brothers carrying each other.<p>

And faith in Captain America carrying them all.

Bucky was adjusting his pack and readying his rifle, so he didn't notice at first that seemingly everyone capable of standing was there. And when he did notice, he felt a cold wave of dismay rush over him, colder than the snow sticking to his face, and that icy sensation fell down into the pit of his stomach. He didn't want the men to hope so much; he doubted they were as acutely aware of the odds as he was, of the bleakness of the situation. An unknown number of enemies was across that snowy field, and after that, miles of icy hell lay between them and _another_ force whose size they couldn't even estimate. How many could Captain America possibly kill on his own? He might have been a super soldier, but he was still only one man. One man against a goddamn German army. Could he really do this? Was there a chance?

Bucky sure as hell didn't know. The men were watching Steve walk toward the camp's south entrance like they knew, though. Like they _knew_ Steve could do this. They were watching with wide eyes, awed eyes. Wistful and bright and determined. Dirty, bloody faces, pale with fatigue, pinched with hunger, but jaws were set and chins were held high. A part of Bucky wanted to scream in frustration, because this wasn't goddamn _fair_. It was bad enough to be faced with the difficult ordeal ahead of them, but to go into it bearing the burden of the entire 107th's hopes as well? The weight of their lives wasn't enough? He was angry and he was bitter. He still saw every falter in Steve's step. Signing up for the super soldier program had been a death sentence apparently. They'd looked for someone stupidly self-sacrificing enough to literally turn himself into a goddamn human shield, and Steve of course fit that bill. He'd fit it his whole life. _"Trust me when I tell you that I can take it."_

_You always say that. And I know you can. That's the problem. That's the whole damn problem. And you don't have to! You shouldn't have to!_

Steve had to. And Bucky knew it. He realized something else as they made their way through the assembled troops. It wasn't that they knew Steve could do this. It was that they knew he would try. He would fight. Stand up for them. That was all they needed to know, all they needed to fuel the timid fires of their faith. Maybe it was petty, but Bucky didn't want Steve to be their symbol. Their hero. Their _goddamn _martyr. He didn't want that. He just wanted Steve safe. _"Life's not fair, Buck. We do what we have to do."_

The men were reaching out to grab Steve, to pat his shoulder, shake his hand, get a grasp of his arm. The murmur was getting louder, rolling through the silent, frozen night like a wave, a crescendo of energy and support. Bucky trailed behind Steve, Carter at his side, as Steve wove his way through the men. Carter shared yet another worried look with him (he'd had no idea he'd had this in common with Peggy, this intense fear for Steve, and this ability to communicate it with a frown or a concerned glance). Steve didn't revel in the adulation. He never did. But he didn't dissuade the men either, allowing them the moment to invigorate their faith. That was just as important to him as the mission he was about to undertake, just as vital to their survival. Something to believe in. _Someone._

The rumble of words focused into a cheer and got louder still. Rifles were thrust up into the snow. The euphoria turned into a roaring chant. "Cap! Cap! Cap!" Steve seemed a little surprised now, stopping ahead and to turn around and behold the sight with widening eyes. The men crowded closer. Injured soldiers struggled to stand on their own, reaching hands to Steve. He tentatively grasped them. His shield shone in the light of flashlights and campfires, the star bright and inspiring. There was no sense in being quiet, in staying in the dark. The enemy knew where they were now, and their only hope was worth anything they could give. _"Cap! Cap! Cap! Cap!"_

"Holy hell," Dugan whispered behind Bucky. "Sweet Jesus."

Falsworth shook his head in amazement. "This is…"

"Enough!" The angry shout rose over the din. The men quieted, stepping back and away from Steve. Anderson appeared, a few of the other captains with him. He looked furious. _Goddamn son of a bitch._ Bucky didn't care if he was trying to do what he thought was best. The last thing they needed here was an altercation. Steve was as stubborn as a mule, and if Anderson tried to stop him now…

He didn't. The troops backed away, some angry at being denied this one small thing they were trying to do for the Cap, some fearful of the situation or Anderson's reprimand. Some simply crushed so low that without this, they had nothing. Anderson might have been an arrogant son of a gun, but he wasn't stupid. He came closer to Steve. For his own part, Steve stared at him with level eyes, not disrespectful, but firm. "Permission to address the battalion, sir," he said quietly.

For a moment, Bucky thought Anderson was going to deny the request. But he didn't. He gave a small nod. Steve nodded as well, drawing a deep breath. He slowly pivoted, catching Bucky's eyes and offering up a tiny quirk of a grin. Bucky could see Steve release that long breath, deflating just a bit like he was resigning himself to something. Trying to gather his thoughts, perhaps. "Listen up," he finally called, though it was unnecessary. The hundreds of men pressed and squished into the remains of the town's main road were already completely quiet, so much so that one could hear the proverbial pin drop. Or the snow fall. It was white and thick in Steve's hair. "Thank you for what you just did. Means a lot. It's, uh… Well…" Steve winced, stumbling over himself for a moment. Suddenly the soft-spoken boy from their youths was back, the one who couldn't string a sentence together in a social situation to save his life. "I just wanted to say that this isn't it. It's not. This isn't gonna be where we lose. This isn't gonna be where we fall. I'm heading out there, and I'm going do everything I can to break through that blockade and get us help. I promise you that. I don't give up, so I'm going to fight until I can't anymore. Down to the last bit of strength I have, if that's what it takes."

Steve turned again, his eyes drifting over the soldiers surrounding him. "But I need you to do your part. I need all of you to fight, too, down to the last bit of your strength. I know you're tired. Hurt. Hungry. You're feeling like this is going to break you. But it's not. It's not going to break you or the man next to you or any of us. You know why? Because when we stand together, we're stronger than all of that. We're stronger than they are. You guys have come this far, suffered through all of this, so you can't give up now. You pick up your gun and fight for yourself and the man next to you and your family back home. You keep fighting. When the time comes tomorrow or the day after or the week after or the month after, _all _the way to the end of this war, you keep fighting." Steve paused, taking a deeper breath, his eyes hardening. "This isn't where we break." He looked around, tall and strong, and let that breath go. "This is where we break them."

The cheers that erupted where thunderous, and any doubt about the battalion's willingness to fight to the last was lost in the roar of pride and courage. Steve smiled a warm smile, turning around as the men shouted their agreement. Despite his unhappiness with the entirety of this situation, Bucky couldn't help but be proud. True warmth filled his chest, the tiniest bit of a grin twisting the corner of his mouth. The men crowded close again, kids and hardened warriors alike, once more scrambling for a chance to shake Steve's hand or give him a friendly nudge or thank him for what he was doing. Steve obliged them for a moment before turning back to Anderson. "We're ready, sir," he said quietly.

Anderson didn't look impressed. He stepped closer to Steve, dropping his tone but not so low that Bucky couldn't hear what he was saying. "Captain, I said it before, and I'll say it again. If this fails, it's on you."

Steve's eyes narrowed. "I won't fail." There was not a shred of doubt in his voice.

"You have one day."

"Understood." Steve gave Anderson a final stern look before turning and heading on his way. The troops parted, letting him through and the rest of their group, a minute later they were far enough away from the others that Steve relaxed and let it be seen again that he wasn't entirely up to snuff.

Howard was there, leaning against a darkened truck near the entrance to the base. "Nice speech," he commented. "You just make that up? Or did your ability to spout off bullshit get amplified by Abe's serum, too?"

Steve gave Howard a long-suffering look. "Any chance of a radio?"

"Sorry," Howard replied, disappointed. "Couldn't salvage one. And Anderson wouldn't let me take a working one."

Steve grunted unhappily. "Then please tell me you have something else to help."

"Something, yes. Help? Hopefully." Howard reached into his filthy winter coat. He pulled out two vials, each about an index finger's length long and similarly thick. One contained a red liquid. The other a blue. The light barely caught them, but they seemed to almost glow, an unnatural thing for sure and it made Bucky's skin crawl a little.

"What the hell's that? You been running a little distillery over here?" Dugan asked, but there was a wary note in his voice.

"Hardly. This one is dichloro – never mind, it doesn't matter. I call it 'Purple Mountains Majesty'." Howard grimaced a little. "I thought that would sound better when I said it, but it doesn't really." Steve glanced at Bucky, shaking his head in exasperation. "Look, it's simple. Mix A with B. Red with blue. Pour one into the other. Crack them together. It doesn't matter how. These two chemicals are like hot oil and water, only instead of a little splatter, you get an explosion powerful enough to leave a crater. And not a small one." Steve stepped closer and took the red vial from Howard. "Easy there," Howard said, worried to let it go. "That's all I have of this stuff."

Steve stared at the glittering red stuff a moment before eyeing the inventor suspiciously. "So what's the catch?"

"Well, first, I don't know if it works. I just whipped this bad baby up a couple of months ago, and I haven't exactly been back to my lab to test it. And second, to put it simply, there's no fuse. Mix and boom. So I don't know how good of a weapon it actually is in this state, unless you're keen to blow yourself up in the process of blowing up the bad guys."

Bucky normally would have brushed that thought out of his head – _who the hell am I kidding? _ Steve would do that sort of sacrificial shit if he thought it would save people. He was almost tempted to tell Howard to shove those purple mountains or whatever the hell he was calling them where the sun didn't shine, but Steve was already nodding. "Got it. Better than nothing."

"I recommend one of you carries one and the other carries the other," Howard said. "For safety's sake."

"Red or blue, Buck?"

_This is bullshit._ "Red."

Steve handed him the vial with the red liquid in it, which he carefully loaded into his pack. Dugan handed Steve his own pack, and the blue vial went inside. Nobody seemed overly pleased with this, least of all Carter (and Bucky himself), but there was no time to debate it. Every second they spent here was one less they could use to break the blockade. Steve dropped his shield to his feet for a second to maneuver his pack onto his back. He snapped on his helmet and took the rifle Falsworth offered him. That he slung over his shoulder. He grimaced again, trying to hide it, as he bent to grab his shield. Bucky took a loaded Colt and handed it to Steve and another for himself. Gear was checked again for the last time.

And now it came to it. "Take care of yourselves," Falsworth ordered. He offered Steve a salute, which Steve returned. Dugan wasn't so formal, getting both Steve and Bucky into a backslapping hugs. Jones did the same, worried to all hell.

Howard shook their hands. "I've got faith in you, Rogers, for what it's worth."

Steve smiled. "It's worth a lot, Stark. Like everything you have."

The Commandos turned away, because Peggy was the only one who remained and they wanted to give her some privacy. That was laughable, given what was about to happen and the deplorable conditions and the hundreds of men just down the way. Still, Bucky backed off as well, registering the anxious look in Carter's eye. She leaned close to Steve, not quite embracing him, saying something low into his ear that made him smile slightly. Her fingers lingered on his chest, on his arm, and Bucky could see them twitching, like she was fighting off the urge to touch him more. Like she was yearning to kiss him, or waiting to _be_ kissed, actually, with her red lips pouty and her eyes filled with too much wetness to be anything other than tears and too much heat to be anything other than desperation and desire. But Steve didn't do anything more than say something back, sweep his fingers down her cheek, and turn to Bucky. "Let's go."

They were fairly far from the camp, trudging through the dark and snowy field with only Steve's keen eyesight guiding them, before Bucky said something about it. "You're hopeless. She wanted you to kiss her goodbye, you dumb punk." _She wanted you to kiss her. It might be your only chance. She wanted you to kiss her, and you didn't, and you might never see her again._

Steve paused, almost knee-deep in the snow, to look at him evenly. Seriously. "I didn't kiss her goodbye, Buck, because that wasn't goodbye." He went back to walking, and Bucky followed after a moment, wondering how in the world Steve could be so blind as to not see they were heading out to their deaths.

* * *

><p>Bucky hated winter.<p>

He really, _really _goddamn _hated _winter.

It took them nearly two hours to cross the hilly field to the taller elevations to the west. He wasn't stupid; he knew he was slowing Steve down. Steve didn't say anything of course. God forbid he ever said anything to make Bucky feel like a burden. He probably thought he was returning the favor for all the times he'd been the one dragging. Of course, not saying it didn't make it not true, or make it go away, and Bucky yet again had the distinct impression that their roles had somehow been reversed. Steve leading the way and him lagging behind. Was this how Steve had felt every time they'd done this in Brooklyn, constantly catching Bucky's worried eyes as he glanced over his shoulder? "I'm fine," he called just to get his friend to stop.

"I know," Steve said softly. The wind whirled around them, creating spirals of snow. It was damn deep and so cold. "Just checking for my own peace of mind."

"Well, stop."

They went on in silence for a little longer, Bucky keeping to Steve's tracks just as he had days before the last time they'd trudged across a veritable frozen tundra. "Someplace warm, right?" Steve said.

"What's that?"

"Where we're gonna go when this is done."

Bucky grunted, his boot getting stuck in a drift. He kicked his leg free, annoyed at the snow getting in between the leather and his trousers and at the wasted energy. "Guess the base wasn't the vacation we thought it was gonna be."

"Nope," Steve agreed.

It wasn't that much further to the hill they'd looked at yesterday (_God, was it only yesterday?_) with Phillips, Carter, and Anderson. Thankfully, HYDRA had retreated further west and they hadn't yet encountered any resistance. Bucky could hardly see their destination; a black blob among other black blobs. But Steve could. "I think that the United States government owes you and me a trip to anywhere we want to go in the whole wide world," he gasped, a bit breathless. "I'm thinkin' Florida."

"California."

"Hollywood?"

Steve held up again so that they stayed close to each other. It was so dark and snowing so steadily that it would only take a few yards and Bucky could lose sight of him. "You wanna hear about Marlene Dietrich again? Ginger Rogers?"

Bucky snorted. "Do I want to hear about Captain America schmoozing celebrity A-listers on the USO tour? No thanks. Still smartin' from the last time you told me about it. My ego can only take so much."

"You want to talk about poor egos? I met Marlene Dietrich, Buck. We were both wearing tights."

Bucky barked out a laugh at that, but when Steve looked sharply in warning over his shoulder, he immediately silenced himself. He quietly came closer to his friend, straining his ears. He didn't hear anything besides the low whistle of the wind over the drifts. "They're on the other side of the hill," Steve whispered. His eyes were narrowed. "Half a mile."

"You can hear them?" Bucky whispered back.

"Yeah. Trucks. Shoutin'." Steve turned, gazing into the blackness like he could see something, too. "Can smell the exhaust."

"Holy shit," Bucky whispered in pure, unabashed amazement.

Steve offered a weak grin. "Come on."

They moved faster after that. Steve was darting across the field, moving through the snow like _it wasn't there_, and Bucky was really struggling to keep up. They were at the foot of the steep hill in short order. Steve glanced at him, and Bucky knew what he was about to ask. Sharply he glared and shook his head, as if to say _don't you dare doubt that I can do this,_ and started climbing the incline. Steve followed, sticking close like he was trying to be ready in case Bucky lost his footing and fell. Bucky wanted to hit him again, smack him and send him rolling down the hill in a giant snowball like in the comics, and maybe if they weren't in the middle of a warzone, he would have. As it was, he just kept going and tried not to be relieved that Steve was there to catch him.

It was an endless ordeal of battling the snow, wind, and gravity, but despite the burn in his muscles and the ache in his throat and lungs, they made it to the top of the hill. There were trees up there. Trees and debris. Destroyed cannon and long-range artillery. Major Hill had blown the hell out of these guns, leaving mangled carcasses and damaged trunks. As they passed burned and mangled corpses, Bucky felt a chill at the small of his back that had nothing to do with the low temperatures. "They're all dead," Steve murmured, checking two fallen HYDRA infantrymen near the remains of their destroyed artillery. Bucky wasn't sure that was a bad thing. The two friends finally took refuge beneath the boughs of a snow-laden fir, Bucky leaning against the truck to catch his wind and rest his aching legs. Steve ventured a little closer to the other side of the narrow crest. He kept low, looking through the curtains of snow. "Damn it," he grumbled.

"HYDRA?"

"A lot of 'em. The same guys we beat today." Steve gestured him closer. Bucky pulled his pack around and fumbled for the binoculars he'd put in there. He couldn't see much considering how dark it was, but there indeed were the wisps of campfires and tents and lights. Bucky scanned the scene quickly. The HYDRA camp was tucked in the middle of a little valley, clustered around a farmhouse to which these surrounding pastures probably belonged. He counted a few more big guns, a couple of armored vehicles, one tank, and more than a hundred tents. _A lot of them is right._

"Can we go around?" Bucky asked.

"Don't think it gets us anything. We'd waste time walking, and when we reach the Fifth Army, we'll still have to fight through them on the way back."

"I know that tone. What sort of stupid plan is forming in your dumb punk head?"

Steve angled himself closer to Bucky. He pointed to the house in the center of the camp. "You see that?"

"What, the house?"

"No, the mailbox."

Bucky squinted. He saw it. It was a few hundred yards from their current position. It faced north, where a road probably led to the hills beyond. He had a pretty clear view of it because lights were on in the house, the flicker of a fire in a hearth and lanterns. There were dozens and dozens of German troops down there, crawling about the camp like spiders. And there were officers inside the house. "What about it?"

"I'm gonna drop Stark's purple thing there."

"You're gonna what?" Bucky shook his head, his mouth falling limply open as he glanced from the binoculars to Steve. Steve was already fishing in his pack for the blue vial. "And just how are you planning on doing that?"

Steve pulled the vial free and held it in his palm. Then he scrambled through the snow for Bucky's pack. "Run down there. Cut through the camp as fast as possible. Toss our red and blue… whatever into the mailbox. Run away. You shoot it."

Bucky couldn't get his brain around that. "Come again?"

"You heard me." Steve pulled the red vial loose from Bucky's pack. He scooched around in the snow, fumbling with the makeshift bomb pieces. That red liquid looked like blood. Seeing him handle the two vials together made Bucky's heart pound. And he was about to launch into a long sermon about how this was a million ways stupid and foolish and dangerous, but Steve was already tying the two vials together with one of Bucky's rags that he used to clean his guns. He was quick but careful. "Can you make the shot?"

Hardly believing any of this, his mind digested the problem and came up with an answer somehow. "Yeah. Yeah, I think, but this is – I mean, you don't even know if that thing's gonna work. And if it does, you don't know how big–"

"Wait as long as you can. Give me a chance to get clear."

"Give you a… Jesus, this is crazy! There're a hundred men down there!"

"Probably more."

Suddenly all of the frustration and worry and anger he'd barely kept contained over the last days (_weeks_) was spilling out of him. Bucky grabbed Steve's arm hard, feeling skin that was thick and muscle that was hard and bones like steel beneath. "Goddamn it, Steve, just stop with this bullshit! Stop! I don't care if you're Captain America! You don't have to keep provin' it!"

"I'm not trying to prove anything," Steve replied, the ghost of the night Bucky had shipped out from New York dancing between them. "This is what they made me for. Fighting the battles that no one else can fight."

Bucky could hardly stand it. "I'm not gonna to sit up here and watch you charge into an enemy camp a hundred strong with a goddamn bomb in your hand and pray you can make it out alive. I'm not doin' it! Stop throwin' yourself in front of the punch all the time!"

Steve's jaw tightened. "I'm not throwing myself anywhere, Buck. I mean it. I can do this."

"You always say that!" Bucky hissed.

"And you never believe me," Steve returned, just as hurt and forceful.

Bucky let him go, partly ashamed but mostly just afraid. "You think it's easy for me to watch you get hurt? Been doin' it my whole goddamn life. It should be by now. But it's not. Christ, Stevie, I have patched you up so many times, and it never gets any easier. And this? What you are now?" The truth came, hard and undeniable. "It's _worse_, because you had limits before. Now you treat yourself like you treat that damn shield just because you can, and it hurts, you dumb bastard!"

Steve's face softened at that. This was definitely not the time or place to be having this argument. Even if it had been building for months, ever since Captain America had appeared as a hazy image leaning over him coming to his improbable rescue, they couldn't do this now. Even if it was the same argument as it always had been, they couldn't do this now. "Buck, when I tell you I can do it, I'm not brushing you off or ignoring you. I'm telling you I can do it because I can." Steve hooked an arm around Bucky's neck and hauled him closer. He was shaking, not shivering exactly, and Bucky couldn't tell if it was from the cold or the pain. The mask of Captain America was falling away, probably just for a moment, and suddenly they were two boys again, two boys at home in Brooklyn sticking together through thick and thin and facing the world, strong because of each other. "But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared."

"I know."

They knelt there in the snow, stealing this moment. Steve's trembling eased a bit as Bucky tucked him into his flank, just like he always used to. Steve wasn't as easy to tuck as he had been, but they managed. Bucky closed his eyes, trying to salvage some of his fortitude. "Can't do this without you," Steve murmured into his shoulder. "You're with me?"

"Till the end of the line."

They couldn't stay like this, no matter how tired and frightened they were. Steve pulled away, sniffing, wiping at his eyes a little. Bucky didn't know if there were tears; it was hard to see because it was so dark, but if there were, it would be surprising. Steve had never been much of a crier, even when he deserved to be. He secured his gear, dropping his pack to put his shield on his back. He checked to make sure his gun was loaded and returned it to his holster. He grabbed additional rounds and a couple of grenades, securing it all on his belt, before slinging his rifle over his shoulder. Finally, he picked up Stark's invention. It was going to be a hard target to hit at this range. Bucky was going to have to come closer when the time came.

Steve grabbed another rag from his own pack and wrapped the vials for more protection. He grabbed his shield and secured the thing into one of the straps, tying it tight. He returned his shield to his back. At least that would protect the bomb. More than that, though, Bucky realized what Steve was doing. Providing him a way to see and track him in the darkness and chaos. When he was through with his preparation, Steve heaved a bit of a sigh. "Cover me?"

Bucky nodded firmly, readying his own rifle. "Always do."

Then Steve was _running_.

"Jesus," Bucky whispered, scrambling for a good vantage. He lay on his belly in the snow, hidden partially by a tree, and sighted through his scope. His quick eyes immediately found Steve in the shadows. God, he was moving fast. Bucky knew Steve could run a mile in less than two minutes if he really pushed himself, and he was _really _pushing himself. He was down the hill in a blink, bounding over the thick snow and difficult terrain like it was nothing. Bucky swallowed down the strained pounding of his heart and forced himself to focus as Steve approached the edge of the camp. The Germans hadn't noticed him yet. He saw Steve slow a little, grasp something from his belt with his left hand and raise it to his mouth. He was pulling the pin on a grenade. He tossed it.

The Germans noticed that.

The explosion wasn't terribly big, but it took out the men guarding the perimeter. Rough shouts of alarm went through the camp, echoing in the night, and the snapping of gunfire reverberated off the hills to the point where it was booming. The dark blobs creeping among the camp's lights scrambled. Bucky tightened his finger on the trigger, glancing between Steve as he unleashed another grenade and the soldiers converging on him. With the snow as thick as it was, it was hard to maintain a clear view of his targets. But he did. And his rifle cracked loud in his ears as he shot one HYDRA soldier. And another. And another.

Lights flashed around Steve's rifle as he unloaded his magazine at the enemies swarming him. Bucky picked a few off as well, keeping a fraction of his attention on that shining silver star that seemed to collect and reflect all the light around it. The whole of the camp was coming now, coming in force, the tank grumbling to life. _Shit._ Blue started to light up the night, HYDRA weapons discharging madly. Steve threw another grenade, a deafening bang that shook the hills, and the Germans scrambled to get away. There were loud shouts, and Bucky knew enough German to realize that their enemies had figured out who was attacking them. _"Tötet Captain America! Tötet ihn!"_

"Not if I can help it," he hissed. He fired again, dropping another HYDRA soldier, as Steve tossed his spent rifle. He must have grabbed his handgun, although it was impossible to hear that one discharge over the cacophony of battle. Bucky traced the silver star in the darkness, shooting at anything that came close. Something exploded to Steve's left. He was pushing deeper into the camp. He was fighting like lightning, like Bucky had never seen before. He was cutting through the men coming at him, fists and feet flying. He was power and precision, no touch of restraint in his moves. Blobs of bodies were being tossed through the air like nothing. The star twirled and danced and jumped as Steve pounded through the obstacles before him, running, pushing himself, driving. None of these men stood a chance against him. But a hundred men?

They were trying to surround him now, the tank rattling closer, but Steve didn't let them. He cut through, slipped away, darting faster than could be stopped. He was outrunning _bullets_, weaving through the camp as he rushed to the house. Bucky fired a few more rounds into the crowd trying to stop Steve. Somebody down there figured out there was a sniper on them, and Bucky gasped as the tree behind him was vaporized by a blast from a HYDRA weapon. He scrambled to his feet and slid down the hill, stumbling over the uneven ground. To the left there was another small copse of trees and a large boulder, hardly more than faint outlines of gray. Bucky ran, using his momentum to carry him wildly toward the cover. He climbed up onto the boulder, fighting for purchase on the icy rock, and sighted down his rifle again in panic. Steve was still there, nearly to the house, but he had a sizeable collection of HYDRA troops around him. Something dropped him, and Bucky's heart came crashing to a halt in his chest. _No, no, no no no–_

Bucky imagined Steve's cry as he fought to free himself from the pile. It was hard to differentiate his friend among the slew of dark bodies tangled up with each other, but he did, aiming quickly and taking a few out until his magazine was spent again. He fumbled for another as fast as he could, but his fingers were frozen to the bone and he dropped the bullets into the snow. "Shit," he hissed, horrified that Steve was in trouble and he couldn't load this damn thing fast enough to help! By the time he found the magazine and got it in and shouldered his gun and pressed his eye to the scope, he was terrified of what he would find.

He needn't have been. Steve had gotten loose, and now he was running fast, sprinting through the camp directly toward the house. The tank was trying to pursue him. Bucky growled, squeezing the trigger, and hit the bastard at its top who was shouting at the troops around him. The man went down, and the turret rotated toward him again, spitting and heaving blue hellfire. Terror left him reeling as he dove down off the boulder into the snow for cover. Flushed out, he rolled onto his feet as he charged down the hill. To hell with staying up here.

The tank lost sight of him in the snow, and it went back to trying to kill Steve. Bucky skidded to a small outcropping, bringing his rifle up again. He found Steve's star in the chaos, found it and saw him only a few feet from the mailbox. _Go, go, go!_ The star disappeared. Panic didn't begin to describe the depth of pain and fear sucking him down. Then he remembered Steve had put Stark's bomb in the strap of his shield, and swung his rifle to get a glimpse of the mailbox. Sure enough, the vials were there, unwrapped but still tied together. In the light of the camp, he could see them, red and blue, intact and ready. He didn't know whether to be relieved or scared out of his mind. He settled on the latter, because when he looked back, he couldn't see Steve.

"Shit. Where are you?" Bucky's question went unanswered, of course, and he frantically scanned the raging battle and burning wreckage. "This plan is godawful, Rogers. Goddamn it, _where are you?_" Then he spotted Steve. He was _inside_ the house, fighting his way through with dozens of men chasing him. "What in God's name are you doin'?" Bucky snapped. There was no way for him to help Steve now, not without running closer and any closer might betray his location to the enemy. There was no clear shot at anything within the house. He saw men in officer's uniforms tossed around like dolls, flashes of guns firing, things breaking. "Get out of there." Seconds passed. They felt like an eternity. "Get the hell out of there!"

Steve did. The whole back of the house seemed to burst. Bucky didn't have a decent vantage, even if he could see through the snow and blackness, but he caught the glimpse of Steve's shield whizzing through the air. All that remained of the camp, which was still a sizeable number of soldiers, was coming at him now. Steve fought with abandon, running as much as he was engaging, trying frantically now to get away. Bucky watched, caught between fear that it was too soon and a very strong need to shoot Howard's device and let this explosion loose. How far away did Steve need to be? How close was too close?

Was _he_ too close?

"This plan is _bullshit_," Bucky hissed, shaking in indecision. "Why the hell do I ever listen to you?" He had a clear shot right now, but he knew that wouldn't last. He whipped his sight back to the mailbox, checking frantically that the device was still there (_it is_) before looking back to where Steve was fighting and trying to escape (_run!_). He couldn't stand it anymore. He was out in the open, fairly close to the camp, and he'd be easily spotted, but to hell with that. He pulled on the rifle's trigger, hitting one of the bastards who was aiming right at Steve's back. He shot another in the gut and a third in the head.

The tank's turret rotated toward him. He hardly had the time to run as a swath of blue cut through the field. Bucky staggered, trying to keep to his feet as he stumbled and tripped over the uneven ground. He tried to keep an eye on the mailbox, but it was almost impossible. He sprinted further from the camp, twisting and diving to the left as a sizzling cerulean bolt vaporized the snow overhead. He frantically tried to assess where Steve was – _please, God, let him be clear_ – and when he caught a glance of the star of Steve's shield vaulting up the hill behind the camp, he figured this had to be good enough.

He aimed for the mailbox, for the faint glint of color within it. He exhaled. He fired.

Hundreds of yards away, the bullet hit dead on.

For a moment, nothing happened.

That didn't last.

The explosion was concussive, a shockwave that was soundless and massive radiating outward. It crushed the Germans, crushed the house, crushed Bucky. The boom followed, just as huge and incredible, blasting out with a sphere of expanding purple fire. Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, curling in on himself as the heat mauled him. _This is it. This is where I'm going to die._

He didn't.

When he finally chanced opening his eyes, he saw light. The very air seemed to vibrate with it, with energy and friction. "Holy Mother of God…" he whispered. The lavender sphere contracted as quickly as it had expanded. And, sure enough, in its wake there was a hell of a crater where the HYDRA camp had been.

He couldn't believe it. Howard's bomb had worked.

Numb and shocked, Bucky barely managed to get to his knees. His body felt odd, a little weightless. Still, he put his feet beneath him. His wide eyes beheld the sight before him. The crater was huge, hundreds of yards wide and dozens deep, black and glowing red along its rim with burning earth. It was as if it had been carved out of the ground. The air smelled strange, charged with ozone and electricity. The snow was gone, dissolved, evaporated. _Everything _was gone. The house. The lines of tents. The tank. The trucks. The men. All of it had vanished like it had never been there.

Gone.

_Steve._

"Steve!" The panic came back, sharp and insistent. "Steve! Steve, damn it!" He ran. Briefly he considered going down inside the crater, but it was smoldering hot and too steep, so he skirted around the circumference, desperately trying to keep his balance as he ran along the edge. He passed mangled messes of equipment and men, things that been close enough to be destroyed by the blast but not completely obliterated by it. He raked horrified eyes over the smoking wreckage, knowing he wouldn't be able to tell Steve apart from the other burnt bodies but not making himself look anyway. "Steve! Answer me!" Nothing. Nothing but the echo of his own voice and the hissing crackle of fires being smothered by snow. Bucky felt tears build in his eyes. _No. No, no, no. No!_ "Steve! Where are you?" _He has to be here. He has to be!_ Bucky kept running, wetness bleeding from his eyes and freezing on his cheeks. He stopped halfway to the other side of the crater, helpless and hurting. _"Steve!"_

A hand grabbed his shoulder, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He whirled. Steve was there, covered in dirt and soot and snow, but _alive_. "Jesus," Bucky gasped. He barked out a sob and grabbed Steve so tightly he might have hurt anyone else. Steve gave a soft _oomf_, dropping his shield with a clank and staggering a little with the force of Bucky's hug before embracing him back just as firmly. "I thought you were… I thought I…" Bucky choked on his breath, burrowing his face into Steve's shoulder. "God Almighty, I thought…"

"I'm alright," Steve said. He was winded, chest heaving against Bucky's. He pulled back, grunting a little and offering up a ghost of a smile. "Hell of a firecracker."

Bucky grunted. He wiped at his eyes, embarrassed. Steve nudged him before dropping to his knees with a groan and snatching up his shield. It was nearly black, all of the paint burned away, but the star was still there under the soot. It shone silver, as dull as it was. "One line down," Steve said with a heavy sigh. "One to go."

* * *

><p>They clambered back up the hill from which they'd come. The instability and danger of the crater aside, there was no telling who might have heard that blast. They needed a moment to collect themselves, at any rate. They located Steve's discarded pack on Steve's memory alone; Bucky was so disoriented at this point that he hardly knew up from down. Then they found another copse of trees not too far away and too refuge in them. It was <em>still<em> snowing, and Bucky shivered. He shivered and shook and nearly collapsed. Steve helped him drop his gear and himself next to a tree. "Now what?" he whispered, his voice a worn and weak rasp.

Steve opened a canteen and practically downed it. He'd fished a flashlight out of his pack a few minutes ago and had it clipped to his belt so as to free his hands. Bucky saw fresh red here and there on Steve's uniform, but he was honestly too fatigued and traumatized to say anything about it. Steve was walking and talking, right? So he had to be okay, didn't he? "Here," Steve said, offering up another canteen.

Bucky's fingers shook from more than just the cold as he unscrewed the top and drank. He couldn't stop shivering. He was coming down from the adrenaline rush of the battle and coming down hard. The near death experience. That blast. _Too much. _Steve was fumbling at his belt. "I pulled this from that house," he said. Bucky glanced at him, not quite comprehending that. He was even more confused when Steve crouched beside him, setting his shield to the snow. He pulled the flashlight from his belt and spread what looked like a map over the ground before shining the light on it. Bucky squinted blearily, struggling to make sense of it. It wasn't just a map. He couldn't read German, but the markings in red were clear enough. It was a battle plan.

"Holy shit," Bucky murmured.

"Yeah." This flimsy piece of paper showed everything. Where the other blockade line was. Where the main HYDRA line was to the north. The positions of their outposts, scouting parties, tank divisions, troop deployments. _Everything._ "Are you seeing what I'm seeing?"

Bucky was so damn tired that he couldn't really think for a moment. He managed to get his brain to function. This map was showing exactly what Carter had thought: the blockade was shaped like a "V", and it was forming a channel through these hills by which the Nazis could move south. These looked like plans for the northern line of HYDRA, which seemed to be a couple of battalions strong, to sweep down right where they were and attack the 107th from behind. When SSR was defeated, the plans indicated a massive surge west coordinating with the Nazis in and around the Winter Line before driving south. The Fifth Army would be crushed.

Steve's eyes narrowed. "They're gonna attack," he murmured. He shook his head, his eyes glazed with thought. "We can't let that happen. We need to take this position. Right where we're standing." He turned around, looking up the hill. "We need to hold the top there. If they make a move, we'll have the high ground."

Bucky clenched his teeth hard to stop their chattering. "We ain't got enough left to hold anything, Stevie. Not enough men. Not enough guns. Not enough of anything."

"It won't take much. They can't get through this way now, and they won't know that until they're here. There are enough shells left to blast them good for a little while at least."

"Anderson's not gonna do anything other than retreat."

Steve acted like he hadn't heard. "We have to try until I bust through the blockade and bring the Fifth Army to us."

"That's crazy," Bucky groused. Maybe Steve was as punch-drunk as he felt. "'Sides, there's no way to get word back."

"Yes, there is," Steve said grimly. "Can you make it?"

Bucky stared at him incredulously. "What?"

Steve stared back evenly. His tone was soft. "I think this is the end of the line."

Bucky pushed himself to his feet, the heat of his rage surging through him and bringing energy to his depleted body. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

Steve was still such a stubborn little shit. "You have to go back."

"The hell I do!"

"Don't."

"Don't what? Don't let you do this? Don't let you sacrifice yourself?"

"I'm not sacrificing myself!"

"It sure as shit looks like you are. Why do you always think you gotta take everything on yourself? Why, Steve? _Why?_"

Steve looked flustered, averting his gaze hotly. He didn't answer that. Instead, he said, "Somebody's gotta go back and tell them. Convince Anderson to take this position and hold it."

Bucky gritted his teeth hard enough that his jaw hurt. He folded his arms over his chest. "And that someone is me, huh?"

Steve met his gaze again. He pointed to the snowy hell to the west of them. "There's fifty miles of frozen wasteland between here and the other blockade line. You won't make it. I know you want to try, but you won't. You're spent, Buck."

The anger kept coming, hot, hot enough to make him feel alive for a second. "Go to hell, Rogers. You don't know what I am."

Steve sighed, struggling for words. "It has to be you. I need to break the blockade, and I can't ask you to go any further."

"What happened to not being able to do this without me?" Steve didn't answer. There was fear in his eyes. Bucky thundered on, too hurt to care. Too hurt to stop. "What, you don't want me to slow you down? Be _your_ burden like you've always been mine?"

Indignant pain twisted Steve's face. "Geez, that's not what I said!"

"That's damn well what it sounds like," Bucky snarled. "Who the hell do you think you are? Goddamn Captain America? You don't get this new body and this new bullshit outfit and bullshit title and–"

"Enough!" Steve barked. The tone in his voice alone was enough to silence Bucky. "Who do I think I am? Your commanding officer, that's who I am!" Steve's eyes flashed with his own ire, searing and misplaced on his face. He got into Bucky's space, practically looming. "And you have your orders, Sergeant. _Follow them._"

Bucky was too angry, too shocked at that, at Steve _pulling rank_ for the first time ever, to even breathe. And, Christ, he _knew_ Steve was right. Somebody needed to rally the 107th to make this last stand. Somebody needed to hold this position, to be ready to coordinate with the Fifth Army when it arrived. Now they had irrefutable evidence that if they withdrew, the Fifth Army was going to be flanked. Pulling out now was unforgivable. The whole damned Allied offensive along the Winter Line would collapse.

But, even more than that, what Steve needed to do now… Running and fighting and pushing himself beyond even his limits… Bucky couldn't do that. Couldn't help him. Couldn't follow him. Couldn't keep up with him. _Would_ slow him down. He choked on another sob. This goddamn argument, over and over again. God, he hated it.

It was Steve who apologized first. "Sorry. I, uh… I shouldn't have said that… Lord Almighty, Buck." Steve grabbed him and hauled him close again. "You gotta go back. You can't come with me this time. I can't let you die out here. I can't do this without knowing you're okay. I gotta know you're safe."

"It ain't your call."

But it was. And they both knew it.

"I can break the line," Steve softly swore. "I promise."

Bucky sighed. Same argument. Same words. Twenty years of hearing it. He could barely stand to anymore. He should have learned when to cut his losses. _Here. Now. _He closed his eyes against the sting of tears. "Alright."

"Can you make it back?"

"Yeah." Bucky felt dead inside again. "Dawn's a couple of hours off. I'll wait here until it's light. I can find my way then."

They hugged each other. Steve shuddered, grasping him like a lifeline. "'m so sorry," he murmured.

"Me, too." Bucky sniffed, pulled away, and stared hard into Steve's eyes. "Listen. I believe in you. I don't say it enough, but you know I do, don't you?" Steve jabbed his teeth into his lower lip and nodded. "You break that line and you bring help. You save us. We'll be here waiting for you."

Nothing more was said for a moment, the enormity of it all too much. What was ahead. What was behind. Going on and falling back. Somehow it felt like a failure, even if they hadn't lost anything. So Bucky didn't think about that. When this war was over, they'd go someplace warm. Bucky would find a nice gal. Steve would take Carter dancing. They'd drink those fancy drinks and eat steak and stay out way too late, lighting up the town. When the war was over… "Hey, do me a favor, huh?"

While Bucky had been drifting in his thoughts, Steve had reached into his pack. He pulled out something. Bucky blinked, trying to focus. It was that box the little Italian girl had given Steve. The one with the chocolate truffles in it. Steve grinned sheepishly. "In case I don't make it back in time… Can you give these to Peggy?"

Bucky didn't want to take that box. But he did, and it hurt something fierce. "Sure."

"Thanks." Steve grinned. "Don't do anything stupid."

"How can I?" He managed a small, bitter smile of his own. "You're takin' all the stupid with you." Steve clasped him on the shoulder once more, a knowing, brotherly hold that was tight and strong, before grabbing up his shield and heading out into the snow. Bucky didn't want to let Steve go. He wanted to shout, to deny, to force him to see reason. But he didn't. His words died in his throat. Anything he said would have fallen on deaf ears, anyway. Captain America had a blockade to break, a battle to win.

And Steve Rogers always had to make good on the promises he made. That was who he was. Bucky couldn't change him even if he wanted to. He didn't want to. Not then. Not now. Not ever. He just wanted Steve safe.

_Please, God… I don't like asking you for anything, but I have to ask you for this. Please, please… Please let him come back safe._

* * *

><p><em>Tötet Captain America! Tötet ihn! – <em>Kill Captain America! Kill him!


	6. Chapter 6

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence, dramatized scenes of war)

**ABOVE AND BEYOND**

**6**

"_What's it like working with Captain America? The guy is literally the world's biggest pain in the ass. He's got a stick the size of a Redwood up his butt. It's like talking to your grandpa all the time. And it's his way or the highway. You follow his orders, or you get 'the look'. No, we don't get along. Like at all. My dad was his number one fan, so that doesn't help. My dad searched for him for years. Never found him, obviously, but Howard Stark was like Ahab after his very own Moby Dick. And he freaking worshipped Cap. When I was a kid, every night he put me to sleep with the Captain America story hour, excitement and thrills behind enemy lines! I ate that crap up. Back then, I kinda had this hero complex over him. But what kid didn't? I was ten and a moron. When I got old enough to not be stupid, I stopped drinking the kool-aid. It had to be a bunch of crap. Nobody could be that good. The thing is, though… He kinda is. He's exactly what's on the package. This symbol of… Well, you know what he's a symbol of. I get it now, what it's about. Why my dad kept looking. I get it. Captain America inspires you to be better. He makes you do the right thing just because it's right. He's about being a hero in whatever way you can be. So fighting alongside him… Yeah, it's… it's good. Might even be an honor sometimes. Might even be – hey, uh… You're not actually gonna use this interview, are you?"  
><em>– Tony Stark, 2013

_February 13__th__, 1944_

Peggy was trying desperately to keep busy. Desperately. It was difficult, made even more so by the fact she was absolutely exhausted. She hadn't slept last night. After Steve and Bucky had left, she'd existed in a daze, trying not to think, trying not to feel. Rest was a fruitless, impossible venture. It was so cold, and she was miserably worried, so even if she'd managed to get warm and comfortable enough to close her eyes, her thoughts and anxieties kept her awake. It was with bleary eyes, a throbbing head, and a heavy heart that she had greeted the new day. And then she'd brushed her melancholy aside and gone to work. The hours had passed, long and horrendous with only the sheer power of her own determination keeping her on her feet and focused. But that was waning now, as hunger and exhaustion weighed her down more and more, and her will was losing the battle against her body.

"Agent Carter?" one of the physicians prompted. Peggy snapped out of her daze, blinking quickly and physically jerking herself from her malaise. The man regarded her worriedly and thankfully without frustration even though she had nearly nodded off while assisting him with redressing a soldier's gunshot wound.

"My apologies," she said, ashamed. She worked quickly to mop up the fresh blood as the doctor fixed torn stitches, trying to gather herself even though her hands shook and her eyes burned.

It took her another moment to realize the doctor had stopped working. "Why don't you take a break," he offered softly, compassionately. She looked up at his banal face, expecting to see irritation or disgust. There wasn't any. "You've been here for hours. You deserve one."

Honestly, she didn't think she could take much more, as much as she wanted to proclaim she could. She glanced down the long lines of injured men in this makeshift field hospital. During the night, the soldiers had worked to erect coverings for the wounded, building tents where they could, using the wreckage as much as possible to offer some protection from the elements. Even still, the injured numbered in the hundreds, and they were all shivering, sick, and suffering. They were crowded together for warmth, the poorest of them moaning and whimpering, those more hale murmuring prayers and encouragement. There was nothing left to treat them. They'd already lost nearly two dozen men during the night. More would surely follow, and there was nothing they could do.

She knew that, but sitting still and waiting was not at all appealing. "Captain, I'm fine," she said with as much certainty as she could muster. Her voice was a mere shade of its normal confidence. The doctor reached over a reddened hand and grasped hers to still it. She was forced to look up from her work, and she met eyes that were knowing and a grin that was not at all convinced. She realized she wasn't fooling anyone. Her lips twitched into a small, apologetic smile. "Yes. Alright."

Someone else came to take her place as she walked away. Her senses were so dulled by fatigue and the trauma of the last days' events that she didn't see the miserable men all around her, didn't see the deplorable conditions, didn't feel anything at all really. The apathy was a pleasant shield, so she hid behind it, picking her way through the clumps of injured and dying to find a water basin at the entrance to the hospital. She washed her hands as best she could, wincing as the frigid liquid tortured her dried and chapped skin anew. She stuffed them in the pockets of her coat and appraised the scene around her. It was early afternoon, a sad, listless sun finally peeking through the clouds and casting a dull, hazy glow over the frozen world. The snowfall was dissipating slightly, the awful conditions that had dominated most of the night before and the day so far relenting and leaving behind new layers of pristine white. She stood, gazing over the camp, watching the beautiful sparkle of timid light on the snow and ice and wishing it was more than just an illusion. But it wasn't. It was a façade, because there was blood and dirt and wreckage under that pretty, crystalline blanket. It was a lie hiding the horrors of war.

She sighed and dropped her gaze. She started walking with no particular destination in mind, so tired that she didn't even realize she was moving at all for a while. Then she came back to herself and realized where her feet had taken her. _I won't do it._ But she already was. She was already standing at the edge of the camp, staring out into the softly drifting snow, _watching_. Watching the hills to the west, snow-laden and endlessly white. Watching where Steve and Barnes had gone. Watching and waiting and _praying_. No. She wasn't going to do it. She wasn't going to stand here and torture herself with fears and doubts and worries. She wasn't going to be so weak, so useless, so anchorless without Steve. She wasn't going to walk away.

She didn't, and the minutes slipped from her one after another after another, like the flakes fluttering to the ground.

"Peg?"

She was so lost in her thoughts, thoughts of Steve and all the things she hadn't told him and wanted to give him and needed to share with him, that she didn't notice Howard until he was practically beside her. He had to call her name again before she actually turned to acknowledge him. He was pale, dirty, and bruised. As unkempt as he'd seemed days ago, it was worse now. Still, his eyes were sharp and deep with worry. Worry for her. "You alright? You look like hell."

"Such a flatterer, Howard," she commented.

"Here." He handed her a dented tin cup. She stared at it, not quite understanding. Her brain didn't seem capable of processing anything right now. "It's just water. Hot water." Howard's lips quirked into a rueful smile under his messy mustache. "No coffee. No tea. No lemon. No nothing."

Peggy took the cup regardless. The warmth didn't begin to ease the chill that, at this point, was so deeply set into her bones that it felt to be a permanent part of her. She breathed slowly, looking to the west more boldly. "Not for much longer."

Howard was a bit surprised. "Been more than twelve hours."

"Even Captain America needs time to work miracles."

"You're just a wellspring of treacly optimism," he commented, a touch of irritation coloring his tone. "Worse than before."

Peggy sighed, gathering the tattered remains of her heart and holding it together. "I have to believe," she said softly. The men were right to cheer last night, to cling so tightly to their faith. "It's all we have left."

Howard was probably too much of a pragmatist to be encouraged by that. He sighed and sipped his own water, concentrating on it like he was trying to convince himself it _was_ coffee or tea or anything other than what it was. Something that tasted good. Something to fill his stomach. "Did you hear that bang last night?"

"Yes." Everyone in the camp had heard it. It had been so loud, distant but powerful enough to rattle the earth beneath them and send the soldiers running in a frenzied attempt to protect the camp. In the silent, terrified minutes that followed, nothing had happened. No bombing. No assault. That could only mean the explosion had come from the blockade line, and that meant Captain America was fighting. A wave of whispered excitement had gone through the men with that realization. Captain America was out there, fighting. _Winning_. Smashing HYDRA's defense, charging through the line, _avenging_ them. That had been the word murmured around the camp. An avenger.

But that explosion had been it. The number of hours since then had mounted, more and more of them, and the Italian countryside remained as silent as a frozen tomb.

Howard worried his lower lip a little, gazing back out over the fields. "Bet it was my 'Purple Mountains' going off. So that means they either broke the line, or…" _Or it blew up on them._ She was trying to ignore the possibility, but it was there, and she was too smart not to acknowledge it. Not that it mattered. Would Steve and Bucky be more dead if Howard's device went off prematurely than if they'd simply been shot or hit by a HYDRA weapon? A million things could have gone wrong. They were two men against hundreds.

"They broke the line," Peggy said. Again, it was all she could say. All she could believe. The alternative was too terrible.

"Yeah," Howard agreed, but his tone suggested it was perfunctory. "How's Phillips?"

Peggy sipped her water. It warmed her throat and chest as she swallowed, so that made it pleasant enough. "He briefly regained consciousness during the morning, but he wasn't entirely cognizant. Still, the doctors believe it is a good sign." _A good sign._ It wouldn't matter if help didn't arrive soon. That was unspoken between them because it didn't need to be said.

They stood in silence for a bit, watching the afternoon sun wash across the field. The snow glittered, again so beautiful, and she let herself be lulled by it for a moment. Lulled by the pretty display. Had it been only two days ago that Steve and the Howling Commandos had arrived at the camp? They'd come from the south then. And she'd been waiting, just like she was waiting now, waiting for him to appear in that ridiculous uniform of his with his shield shining through the snow, tall and strong and untouched no matter how bad the situation was…

_He'll come back. Whole and safe. I know he will._

And then he'd give her whatever gift he'd managed to find for her in the middle of this frozen hell. He'd give it to her on Valentine's Day. _Tomorrow._ It would happen because he had promised her it would. If there was one thing she knew about Steve Rogers it was that he kept his word.

"Peggy? You're drifting, doll." She was too tired to remind Howard to not call her that. He boldly slid an arm around her and tugged her closer. It was embarrassing and inappropriate, and some small part of her pride demanded that she not permit it, but she couldn't help but sag into his warmth. "Come on. You need sleep. Watched pot never boils."

"I have work to do," she murmured against the frozen lapel of Howard's winter coat.

"That's my line normally, so I know it's a load of nonsense. No, you don't need to work. Yes, you need sleep." He was directing her somewhere, and she was too weary to stop him. "You don't want to be dead on your feet like this when Steve does get back, do you?"

"Howard." Her voice dropped to whisper. "Major Anderson's making preparations to retreat come first light tomorrow morning. If that happens, we won't be here when they come back." The entire camp was dragging its feet through the preparations, readying the injured and salvaging what supplies they could. At least a hundred men were too sick to move, brought down by wounds or hypothermia, and if the battalion retreated… She didn't want to think about it. Numerous officers and medical personnel had already volunteered to stay behind, but that was akin to throwing their lives away. Not that marching south was a much safer prospect. Nearly a thousand soldiers, a significant portion of that injured, would be attempting to cross open ground. They would crushed by the weather and probably hunted by HYDRA. It was lunacy, but Anderson could not be talked out of it. He was the battalion's CO, so there was very little they could do.

Howard was resigned, his jaw clenched unhappily. He couldn't say anything to make it better, so he simply didn't try. "Anyway, I found a nice place where the snow's not so deep and there's _almost_ a soft spot to lay in. I'm going to share it with you, Peg, because you're a stand-up gal, and I figure I owe Rogers enough to make sure you get some rest." They were plodding to the side of the camp, where the rubble from one of the houses had created a tiny maze of sorts. Howard led her through it until they came to something of a little alcove built of half a wall and a pile of broken brick. "Normally I don't bring women back into something like this, but it's the best I got." There was a load of equipment spread around, protected by a tattered tent, canvas tarps, and a couple of blankets. She spotted the cipher the Howling Commandos had snatched from the HYDRA factory, miraculously undamaged. That seemed a lifetime ago. A gun was tucked under some of the blankets, this little nest where Howard had been sleeping. "What's mine is yours."

"Howard–"

"One day, Peg, we're going to tell people about this. People are going to write books about it. How we survived a brutal blockade for weeks in the middle of a goddamn blizzard. And then Captain America busted the Germans up and saved us." He rubbed Peggy's frozen arms through her coat. "'Course, I'll probably embellish my own role in this. 'Howard Stark, war hero' sounds pretty good. That's what I'll tell my kids. Captain America, the Howling Commandos, and me."

Peggy's teeth chattered unabashedly as she gave up on seeming strong and relaxed more into Howard's embrace. "Can't imagine you with children," she admitted. "What happened to – to going home and getting back to your inventions?"

"After the war's a long time, isn't it?" Howard murmured into her hair. "I don't know. Maybe someday I'll want a kid. Someone to carry on the Stark legacy. Find a girl I can stand for a wife. Settle down. Have a family. Here, lay down." He helped her onto his make-shift bed. She wanted to protest again, but she didn't have the energy or wherewithal. It was cold but no colder than anywhere else. When Howard drew one of the blankets up and over her, it was enough to push her down into the darkness that had been creeping about her mind for hours. A hand fell on the crown of her head momentarily. "Just sleep for a bit. I'll keep an eye on you and an eye out for the Cap."

"He's coming back," she murmured. It was all she could think, like a mantra repeating in her head. "He's coming back."

"I know, doll."

_He said he would come back. He said he'd always come back. So he's coming back. He's coming…_

* * *

><p>"Peggy. Peg. Carter."<p>

It took a lot of effort to wake up, even with the insistent voice and the equally insistent hand jostling her by the shoulder. "Hmm? What?"

"He's back."

That cut through sleep like a knife, and Peggy jolted upward. She wasn't even fully awake, her body tingling and her mind struggling, before she was asking almost plaintively, "Steve's back?"

Howard was looming over her. It was late afternoon now, so Stark's face was dark. Dark with more than just shadows, however. "No. Barnes."

That cut even deeper when her mind actually managed to process it. Barnes had returned. Bucky was back. _Bucky came back without Steve._ Peggy was on her feet before she even thought to stand, all traces of peaceful slumber gone like she'd never slept at all. She charged away from Stark's little corner in the rubble, slipping in the snow and ice but never losing her balance. As she plowed onto the main road of the camp, she saw that the men had gathered once more. There was a murmur of worry crawling over the large group, hesitant glances and whispered words shared among friends and fellow soldiers. Peggy pushed her way through them all, not as politely or gently as she normally would have, and the troops in her way wisely extricated themselves. Sure enough, down the road a bit, she spotted Barnes' blue wool coat. He was surrounded by the other Howling Commandos, Jones patting his shoulder and Falsworth managing a relieved smile and Dugan slapping his back in half a hug, though why they were celebrating she couldn't understand. She couldn't understand anything. Why was Barnes here without Steve? Where was Steve? _Where's Steve?_

"Sergeant," she called as she came closer. She realized the men were watching, and she was sorely tempted (and terrified and angry enough) not to care, but she recognized that creating a scene was not in anyone's best interest. So she lowered her tone and stood as close as she could to keep their conversation quiet. "What happened? Where's Captain Rogers?"

Barnes met her gaze. She could see he was absolutely exhausted, pale in the face despite the dark circles about his eyes and unshaven jaw. His was bruised and battered, haggard and clearly worn out. That should have been enough to stay her anger, to force logic to trump everything else. But it wasn't. Bucky's eyes hardened. "He went on ahead."

And that should have been enough as well to ease the pain in her chest, to make it easier to think and breathe. _But it wasn't._ "You let him go on alone?"

Barnes positively glared at her. She'd never seen such a look on his face, a combination of rage and guilt and so much pain. Her own shame chewed at her resolve, ripping it apart and swallowing it a piece at a time, and she barely resisted the urge to cry or at least break down and apologize for the accusation that had been in her voice. "Captain Rogers ordered me to come back here," Bucky said. "Speaking of which, I need to talk to Major Anderson. Right away."

He was staring at her. Waiting. The Commandos were staring at her, too. All of the men were, in fact, like this was somehow her call. Her decision. As weightless as she felt, she had a duty to this unit to do the best she could for them. As did Barnes and the rest of the Commandos. As did Steve. So if Steve had sent Bucky back, surely it was for a good reason.

She lowered her gaze, trying in vain to hide the heat coloring her cheeks, and nodded. "This way."

"As you were," Falsworth said to assembled troops.

Bucky fell in step beside her as she led him through the remains of their base. When they were far enough away from the others, she sighed shakily. "I'm very sorry," she softly said.

Barnes sniffed, not looking her way like he was trying to hold himself together. Eventually he did meet her gaze again, a flash of gray eyes that Peggy swore glittered wetly for the briefest second in the fading daylight. "I didn't want to leave him."

"I know," she murmured. "It wasn't my place to accuse you–"

"He's going to break the other line," Bucky announced. "I tried to talk him out of it. But I couldn't. And I shouldn't have tried." Barnes scrubbed a filthy hand down his face. "He knows what he's doing." Peggy wanted to argue, but she knew in her heart she shouldn't, either. This was the same situation as the night before, when they'd been trying to tend to Steve's injuries with the horrible and inevitable fact looming over them that Steve was going to go out there and fight no matter what. This was what it was to care about (_love_) Steve Rogers. It was hard, and it hurt more than she thought possible, more than she'd ever realized. She abruptly felt sorry for Bucky because as painful as this was for her, he'd dealt with it his whole life. This helplessness. This fear. Barnes sniffed again, wiping angrily at his eyes. "I really need to speak to Anderson."

Peggy nodded and buried all of it down deep. They continued the rest of the short distance to the ramshackle tent Anderson had designated as his command center. The major was there, speaking with a few of the other captains about coordinating their withdrawal in the morning. Anderson looked up at their approach, not noticing Barnes at first, but with his second glance his eyes widened slightly. Bucky saluted wearily. Another step looked sure to be too many for him, but he took it and straightened his shivering form. "Major Anderson, sir, I have information from Captain Rogers." Anderson didn't seem interested in hearing it. Bucky blinked, as if he couldn't quite believe it was coming to this. "Permission to debrief you, sir."

Anderson still didn't look up from his map. _Bastard. _"I don't see the Fifth Army rushing to our rescue."

"Sir–"

"If you're back here like this, I'm assuming you failed."

Bucky stiffened, and Peggy could see he was exerting every bit of his self-control to stay calm. "No, sir. We broke the first line of the blockade. Captain Rogers went on to try and break the second." That gave Anderson pause, enough that his scowl disappeared. "When he raided the German camp at the blockade line, he found a map outlining HYDRA's positions and battle plans. He ordered me to come back here and tell you that retreat is not an option."

Anderson's anger was returning quickly. "And why is that, Sergeant?"

Bucky was through being polite and subordinate. Peggy could practically see his temper fraying. He pushed forward to the crate the captains were using for a table, grabbing the map the officers had been inspecting and a pencil. He drew a line in a valley right next to the very hill where they had thought the blockade was positioned. "This is where they were. We destroyed 'em. But there's a line of HYDRA here–" Bucky drew a mark about fifteen miles north. "–and the other blockade line's here–" The pencil scratched again about fifty miles west, just as they'd originally thought. "–and the Germans are running strong all the way from there to the Winter Line. There isn't a way to withdraw. This was how they were getting south, this corridor here. If they come down while we pull out, we're going to be attacked." Bucky sighed, looking up at Anderson openly. "And you see what will happen."

Peggy did immediately. With their position vacated, HYDRA would sweep west, coordinate with the rest of the German forces, and overwhelm the Fifth Army. She darted her eyes between the map and Anderson, praying he would come to the same realization and understand that they could not retreat. Anderson's face was blank, empty as he stared at the map. His jaw clenched. Peggy could hardly stand to wait, but she did. She didn't dare threaten Anderson's dominion with her own opinions now. Not now. _Lead a horse to water… Hope that he teaches himself to drink._

After an excruciating moment that seemed to last forever, Anderson leaned back. "What did Captain Rogers recommend?"

Peggy could hardly contain the flutter of relief in her chest. She didn't dare glance at Barnes, didn't let any emotion show at all. Barnes released something of a shaky breath. "He recommended we take this hill." He jabbed a grimy forefinger at the hill in question. "They can't come down this way anymore, but we don't think they know that. If they try and we hold this high ground, we can hit them hard, sir, hard enough to knock them down and protect both our flank and the flank of the Fifth Army."

Anderson scrutinized the map carefully. He didn't like what he saw, that much was clear, and for another awful moment, Peggy feared he would deny them the chance to defend themselves. But he didn't. "Alright." Peggy didn't know what had changed. Seeing the sun for the first time in days? Hearing Steve's inspiring words the night before? Watching the men cheer Captain America? Barnes here, telling them that they'd actually cracked through one of the blockade lines?

Hope, as uncertain as it was?

It didn't matter. All that mattered was Anderson was finally seeing reason. "Alright. Crawley, Holmes, Richardson, pull together what we've got. Every man capable of fighting. The guns are already prepped for extraction; let's get them on that hill ASAP."

Crawley didn't seem as certain. "Sir, we are nearly out of rounds. We're not going to be able to hold them for long."

"Then we hold them as long as we can. As long as it takes for Rogers arrive with the Fifth Army." Anderson looked back to Barnes. "He _is_ coming with them, isn't he?"

"Sir, yes, sir," Bucky said without a doubt. "I, uh… If you don't mind me askin', sir, what made you change your mind?"

Peggy almost grimaced, almost flinched. Anderson exhaled stiffly. "I haven't completely. But I'm trying to maintain this faith in Captain America that everyone else seems to have." He wasn't entirely pleased with that, but it seemed genuine enough. "I don't see much of a choice anymore. We've got it all riding on Rogers' shoulders." The major returned to his men. "Get it done." They nodded uncertainly but dispersed to follow his orders. Then Anderson looked back at Bucky. "Can the Howling Commandos help lead this attack?"

Bucky nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Then see to it."

"Yes, sir."

Barnes didn't wait to be dismissed, turning and heading back through the groups of men now scrambling to gather their guns and their gear. Peggy could hardly believe this had actually happened. They were still in a horrendously difficult and dangerous situation, but now it felt like this wasn't simply up to Steve, that they could perhaps do _something_ other than wait to live or die.

They were with the other Commandos before Peggy even realized they were walking. Falsworth, Dugan, and Jones flanked them as they continued down the road. "We're goin' out," Bucky announced. "We're gonna hold the hill to the west and wait for the Cap there. If HYDRA makes a move, we'll crush them."

"Thank God," Dugan muttered. "'Bout damn time."

"What are your orders, Lieutenant?" Barnes asked Falsworth.

Falsworth glanced at Peggy. "I believe Captain Rogers put Agent Carter in charge."

It took Peggy a moment to realize they were entirely serious. The soldiers stood, guns at the ready, waiting for her to tell them what to do. This was comforting and familiar. Easy, in a sense. Strengthening. All of her poise and confidence returned in a breath. "Is Morita well enough to fight? How about Dernier?"

"Probably not," Jones answered, "but I doubt that will stop them."

"Have them coordinate with Major Hill and his captains. They have the most experience arranging artillery to combat HYDRA's long-range guns, so Hill will need their input. That hill is wooded, so we should be able to make good use of the cover. Rally the company commanders. Let's get the men out there as soon as possible. The more time we waste here, the more opportunity HYDRA has to slip south."

"Not really," Barnes answered. "Stark wasn't kidding when he said his bomb would make a crater. There's a helluva rut in the ground just on the other side of the hill where Steve took out the camp. They're not going to be able to get past that, at least not easily. Steve thought we could bottle-neck them there, hold them for a while."

"Are we sure they're coming?" Jones asked.

"If you guys heard that explosion, you can bet they did, too," Bucky responded. "And Steve took out an entire company of HYDRA. They'll probably notice."

"Then let's move," Peggy declared.

The Commandos broke apart, rushing to see to their orders. Bucky started to briskly walk back toward the camp's entrance, where the trucks were already revving up their engines. She stayed right with him. "With all due respect, what the hell are you doin'?"

"Coming with you," she answered simply. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "And I'd appreciate it if you could find me a rifle. A handgun won't do much good at that range."

Barnes looked at her like she was crazy. She probably was. Her place was here with the wounded, protecting them, coordinating the defense of all that remained of their base. But she wasn't going to stay behind this time. She was too desperate to act.

And Steve was coming. She'd be damn sure she was there to meet him.

Bucky was realizing she was serious and far too stubborn to be talked out of her choice. He sighed in defeat, exhausted and fairly well overwhelmed. "You and him… You two were made for each other."

_The right partner,_ Peggy's mind supplied.

"You have to stay right with me," Bucky said as they started walking again. Now he was the one giving the orders, and they were firm ones, not to be challenged or disobeyed. Not even to be questioned. Perhaps that should have bothered her. She was a hardened soldier and had been in many skirmishes like this before. Moreover, she seriously outranked him, and his commands were rooted in the fact that she was a woman. Not just any woman. His best friend's girl. Still, there was something about that that went beyond rank and duty and military decorum. Something that made her feel more important, more powerful than being a soldier or an agent. _Steve's girl_. "Do you hear me? You stay close. Steve'll kill me if you get hurt."

"I highly doubt that, Sergeant," Peggy said.

Bucky didn't seem so certain. "You've never seen what he can do when he's mad."

* * *

><p>SSR moved with surprising alacrity considering how weak and worn and shattered it was. In the matter of a couple of hours their unit had moved the guns the ten miles or so to the hill. With the setting sun shooting through the clouds, their path was easy to find, and the trucks rumbled back and forth, cutting through the snow and getting the weapons up to their position at the front. Major Hill was yelling until he was hoarse, arranging his battery to cover as much of the small valley beyond as possible. Indeed there was a rather sizeable hole in the middle of it, one that would make it rather impassible for HYDRA's forces. SSR stationed themselves further north, perhaps half a mile, and they were carefully hidden under the snow covered pines. They were hoping to use the crater as a last resort, a final deterrent to stopping HYDRA from advancing down into the Italian countryside. And they got there not a moment too soon.<p>

"Not good," Dugan murmured as he watched the HYDRA division marching down from the north. From this vantage, the force looked massive, thousands strong. They were crawling over the snowy hills down into the valley like rows and rows of spiders. There were tanks, armored vehicles, so _many_ of them. The 107th barely had five hundred men capable of fighting assembled in the trees atop the hill. Five hundred against thousands. "Really not good."

Peggy gripped her rifle tighter and clenched her teeth. This was going to be it. No retreat. All that was left of SSR against the monster bearing down on them. _Hurry, Steve. _"Stand fast," she ordered. Barnes stood beside her, rifle loaded and ready. Falsworth and Jones were flanking him, both grimly determined and waiting for battle.

Shouts were going up and down the line, commands to wait and stay still. This ambush was only going to work if the enemy came deeper into the valley. HYDRA needed to be in range so _every _shot could do the utmost damage. They couldn't afford to waste one. With any luck, they could trap them against that crater and rain fire down on them to thin their ranks. They had to. The Howitzers were poised, armed with the final rounds. They were all terrified that it wasn't going to be enough. "Hold your fire!" someone called. "Hold it!"

They held still. Peggy narrowed her eyes, glancing through binoculars as more and more of the division spilled over the top of the northward hill. The front of it was close enough now. The Allied troops were becoming unsettled, eyes wide and guns clenched tight. Shafts of sunlight were poking through gray and lavender clouds, and they turned the valley gold and red. Everyone waited, tense and tortured. In the silence, Steve's voice seemed to echo. _"You pick up your gun and fight for yourself and the man next to you and your family back home. You keep fighting. When the time comes tomorrow or the day after or the week after or the month after, all the way to the end of this war, you keep fighting."_ She glanced at Barnes, at his strong shoulders and narrowed eyes. At Falsworth, cool and composed, ready for anything. At Jones and Dernier with him, each prepared to do anything to win this battle and keep each other safe. At Morita, down the way to help man the guns, his leg bloody and wrapped but of no deterrent to him. At the troops, boys and men, farmers and college kids and workers. Fathers, husbands, sons, and brothers. Blue-collar. Professionals. All gathered together, to fight this fight. _"This isn't where we break. This is where we break them."_

The roar came down the line. _"Fire!"_

The guns boomed. Shells flew through the air, and machine guns spat bullets far and wide. Peggy watched as SSR's assault pierced HYDRA's advancing line. Earth exploded, sending dirt and snow high. The soldiers below scattered in terror and panic, but it was too late for them to find cover. The Howitzers were relentless, roaring as they fired one after another after another. Shells whizzed down into the valley, blurs of white that cut through smoke and clouds and snow. The cacophony was deafening. She could hardly hear Hill order that they keep up the fire, hot and heavy. It was only a matter of time before HYDRA realized from where the attack was coming. Minutes dragged by, minutes she spent pressed close to the Commandos, praying they could do enough damage to even the odds.

A sizzling arc of blue ripped through the sky above them. It struck one of the pine trees, vaporizing it. Snow that was shaken loose fell down on them in clumps. One of the HYDRA tanks had spotted them, and its main turret was firing now in an almost steady stream. "Get down!" Bucky cried, yanking on Peggy's arm and pulling her to the ground. He covered her with his own body. She peered out from under his shoulder and saw Morita limping and yelling, Jones rushing over to steady him. He was telling the gun operators where to aim, and the soldiers reloaded with armor-piercing shells specially designed by Stark Industries. He was calm in the chaos, and the Allied guns fired again down the line, concentrating on the tank tormenting them. When the smoke cleared, it was nothing more than flaming wreckage.

"Keep firing, boys! Keep it hot!"

"Crush them!"

"Take cover!"

Another blast of blue hit to their left, slicing into the hillside and destabilizing the ground beneath one of their guns. The men screamed as they fell. Peggy got back to her feet, watching in horror as the HYDRA division struggled to reform and mount an attack. Men lay in the valley everywhere, victims of SSR's assault, but the German division still significantly outnumbered them. And they were charging toward them now. "How much longer can you keep up the fire?" she asked the captain in charge of their section of the artillery.

The man shook his head, scraping a hand through his hair. "Not much longer."

"They're coming up the hill!" Dugan shouted.

Peggy whirled, bringing her rifle up and blowing the hair from her face. Barnes was already firing, his gun cracking loudly as he shot down the hill at the first of the HYDRA troops clambering through the snow toward them. They had the high ground, and it was imperative they used it and that they kept it. The Commandos gathered, rallying the troops around them, and flanked her. Guns were blazing. Peggy aimed and fired, sweeping her gun in a small arc that dropped a group of HYDRA soldiers. The Allied troops hid behind trees and the larger guns when the tanks below fired at them, trying to sweep them from the hill and provide the HYDRA infantry with cover. The sounds of battle, men crying and guns blaring and hearts pounding, became all anyone could hear for quite some time. Seconds. Minutes. Hours? She lost track, firing, thinning the charge, taking cover, reloading. Aim. Fire. Reload.

"You alright?" Bucky asked when they ended up beside each other on the ground behind a tree. Down the line, captains and commanders were shouting over exploding earth and thundering guns. She could barely hear him and figured out what he said from his lips moving and the concern in his eyes.

"Quite," she assured, rolling onto her back to reload her Thompson. She was nearly out of ammunition. The distinctive sound of a shotgun somehow cut over the noise, and she looked again to see Dugan unleash a final shot before diving into the messy snow. A tree exploded over them, hit by a grenade, and branches, snow, and pine needles came down in a sharp, unpleasant rain.

"Can't do this much longer," Barnes said breathlessly. Peggy didn't want to agree with him, but she knew he was right. Their ammunition stores had been paltry to begin with, and she was down to her last magazine. Surely the other soldiers were in the same situation. And the Allied guns were quieter now, likely because the shells were depleted. Even though they had struck the HYDRA division hard and done significant damage, this was not a tenable situation.

"Sergeant Jones!" Peggy cried, spotting the Commando to her left. Jones finished the rest of his magazine, aiming down the hill before falling back. He scrambled to her side, wiping at blood on his face. "Go to Major Hill and advise him that we should fall back! Draw them down the way to the hole!"

"Yes, ma'am," Jones said, not wasting a second on dismay. He sprinted, staying low as shots from HYDRA weapons pulverized the 107th's line adjacent to them. Peggy could only watch, horrified, as they lost another few guns, men scrambling for cover. Having the high ground wasn't going to matter soon. Not without ammunition.

"What are we gonna do now? Throw snowballs at them?" Dugan disdainfully muttered, shouldering his useless shotgun and reaching for his sidearm.

Barnes crawled through the snow, trying to get a better glimpse of what was coming up the hill and how stable the line was down its crest. "Shit," he whispered. He looked back, eyes wide and desperate. "We're losing this!"

The trees behind them _disappeared_, struck by a blast from a HYDRA tank slogging up from below. Peggy winced and squeezed her eyes shut at the racket, praying with every fiber of her being that the HYDRA cannon didn't swing down, didn't see them, left them alive… The ground shook. Things were burning. Men were dying again. "Fall back!" she ground out to the rest of the Commandos and the soldiers still standing around them. "Fall back!"

Barnes grabbed the arm of a man who'd been shot and pulled him up. A second soldier came to get the wounded man's arm over his own shoulders, and together they helped him limp away. Peggy stepped forward from the diminished cover of the trees and looked down the hill. HYDRA was nearly halfway up now. SSR's line was collapsing. _No. _If they lost here…

_No!_ She looked down at the enemy troops surging up the hill and took aim. She fired, the rifle vibrating in her frozen, aching fingers. The snow seemed to melt around her, riddled with enemy bullets and blasted away by the hellish blue of HYDRA, and she knew she needed to run, to retreat and fall back and reform and hopefully trap at least _some _of the HYDRA division in that crater or at least slow them down because now there was _nothing_ to prevent them from flooding over the hill and nothing left to protect the wounded back at their base and no way to stop them from flanking the Fifth Army and destroying _everything_ and–

Her gun was empty.

_"Carter!"_ Barnes screamed.

Peggy dove, the ground hard and cruel to her body, as the world exploded around her. Her arms covered her head instinctively, and she swallowed a mouthful of cold snow, but she couldn't make herself cough or gasp or even breathe because this was the end of it. Her heart couldn't beat, frozen solid in her chest, and the only warmth in the world were her tears as they flooded her aching eyes. _Steve…_ This was it. This was–

_"Look!"_

She did. It wasn't HYDRA attacking her.

It was the Fifth Army attacking _them_.

She felt arms grabbing her, hauling her onto her feet, dragging her back to the cover of the trees. It was Barnes, but she couldn't spare him a glance. Instead her wide eyes were glued to the smoking remains of the tank that had been rolling up the hill and the dozens of men who lay dead around it. On the other side of the valley, miles across the way, guns were firing. Another army was descending. Disbelief left her reeling, because as much as she had hoped and dreamed and waited for this, it didn't seem real. Sherman tanks. Long-range artillery. Thousands of men, ready to fight. Bombers flew overhead, swooping low through the smoke and clouds and snow, beautiful streaks of silver in the sky. American soldiers swarmed down the hill, protected by the heavy fire from tanks and trucks. And Steve was leading them.

_My word._ Peggy could hardly convince herself of what she was seeing. At this distance and with so much ash and smoke in the air, it was hard to make out, but when the sun caught Captain America's shield, the SSR erupted in a cheer that seemed to shake the valley. "I can't believe it," Falsworth whispered, shaking his head. "Can't believe he did it!"

Dugan whooped loudly, grinning like a madman. "That's Cap! Son of a bitch! That's Cap!"

The soldiers roared, empty guns held high, chins held higher. _"Cap! Cap! Cap!"_

"Thank God," Barnes whispered. And Peggy held onto him, not caring one bit when he wrapped her tight in his arms, squeezed her hard, and choked out a relieved sob into her shoulder.

* * *

><p><em>February 14th, 1944<em>

The early light of a new day was the most glorious thing Peggy had ever seen.

Well, second, perhaps, to the long line of Allied trucks brimming with fresh supplies rolling into SSR's downtrodden camp.

Yesterday's battle had ended in a quick and decisive Allied victory. Trapped between the 107th, the massive reinforcements of the Fifth Army, and that crater in the valley, HYDRA had had nowhere to run. They'd been veritably crushed, overwhelmed by superior numbers, outgunned by superior firepower, and outdone by the Allies' hold on the high ground. Like prey caught between pincers, they'd fallen.

After the prisoners had been taken and the wounded extracted, the supply line had plowed through the snow, rumbling over the hills to reach SSR's base. These vehicles were loaded with food, with medical supplies, with blankets and fresh water and ammunition. As hard as the winter had been, the army was relatively well-stocked and prepared to handle the wounded. Provisions came in, and the injured were moved out by the truck-full. Peggy supervised it all, coordinating with the Fifth Army's officers, managing the logistics of SSR's withdrawal. Everywhere soldiers ate and drank and celebrated, filthy faces alight with euphoria and relief that left some shaking and weeping. Everywhere the mood was elated, calm and quiet but charged with restored faith.

Howard found her as the last trucks arrived. He watched, satisfied and relieved. Then he nudged her. "You alright?"

She smiled, still not quite believing this was all real and true. She was partially (and irrationally) afraid that if she closed her eyes, she'd open them again to find this was all a dream, a fantasy birthed from starvation and desperation and fatigue. That she'd been back in this nightmare, back on that battlefield, watching their world end around them… But it was real, even if she kept having to pinch herself to prove it. It was real, and they were safe. Everything was alright. "Fine, Mr. Stark."

He let out a long breath, observing with reddened eyes as the last of the wounded were transported via litter into the medical trucks. Crates were being carried from another series of flatbeds to the makeshift field hospital for those men who didn't require more extensive treatment. Colonel Stone, whose battalion had led the attack in the valley, was speaking with Colonel Phillips. Phillips had a fresh bandage around his head and a new coat. He'd apparently regained consciousness during the battle, irate and scrambling to understand what was happening. That moment of weakness had quickly passed, however, and now he was back to his composed, gruff, and ornery self, barking orders without missing a step. Major Anderson came to them, not quite with his tail tucked between his legs, but ashamed enough for Peggy's pleasure. He'd been silent and surprisingly complacent the whole morning. He caught her eyes briefly before looking away. Peggy didn't.

"What a day, huh," Howard commented, drawing her attention. "What a month, really. Sure is nice to have it behind us."

"Yes," Peggy agreed.

"What's next?" Stark asked, warily eyeing the commanders. "Not that this hasn't been fun."

Peggy smiled faintly, turning to him. "So eager for the next adventure?"

Howard shrugged. "Man's gotta be prepared."

Peggy thought back to the discussion she'd had with Phillips a few hours ago. "We're to fall back for the moment and coordinate with the Fifth Army. Colonel Stone requested Captain Rogers and the Commandos assist in an upcoming assault on the Winter Line outside of Rome. The offensive has been struggling there, and he feels having Captain America lead the effort might reinvigorate the men. They were also speaking of something the Allied Commanders are calling Operation: Overlord, but I don't know the details yet. Whatever it is, it sounds vitally important."

"So much for being recalled someplace nice. Like HQ in London. Or California," Howard grumbled, but it was half-hearted.

"It's not too late to go home, Howard," Peggy reminded, though honestly, she prayed Stark wouldn't. Perhaps Howard didn't think of himself as a soldier, but without his inventions they would not have persevered this day or many before it. "No one would think less of you."

"And leave all the glory to the rest of you? Nah. I've got a cipher to break. HYDRA lost here, but you can bet that won't stop Schmidt. Breaking their codes, though… That'll put a hell of clink in their plans, make no mistake. And figuring out how to do that should keep me busy for a bit. Although next time I go out into the field, I'd appreciate better accommodations."

"I'll be sure to pass your request on," Peggy said with a bit of a laugh.

Howard slipped an arm around her for a moment. It was a friendly gesture, because that was what they'd become. Friends. And she deeply appreciated everything he had done for their unit, for the war, and for her. They stood still, watching the commanders speak and the camp come alive with the dawning of a bright day, before Howard stepped away. "Well, I'm going to go find a cup of coffee. Been waiting for days. You want some?"

"Maybe later," she said, because Steve and the rest of the Howling Commandos were approaching Colonels Phillips and Stone. Her heart girlishly skipped a beat, and she prayed Howard didn't notice the preoccupied tone of her voice or the flush on her cheeks. She hadn't seen Steve until now. He looked… As completely unbelievable as it seemed, he looked _whole_.

Of course, Howard did notice, and he gave her a sly, knowing smile before taking his leave. Peggy stood on the edge of the road, watching the men talk. Stone amiably and proudly shook Steve's hand before turning to go to his own captains and aides. Phillips shared a few words with Steve, too, his voice soft. She couldn't hear what was said, but Steve smiled faintly underneath the grime covering his face. He said, "Sir, there's quite a few refugees that the Fifth Army took in over the last couple weeks. One of 'em… Well, there are a couple little girls looking for their dad down south a bit. Permission to make sure he gets home to them."

Phillips nodded. "Granted." He clasped Steve on the shoulder in an uncharacteristic show of affection before ordering Anderson to follow him.

Anderson didn't, at least not right away. He was staring at Steve, his face unreadable. Then he saluted the lower-ranking man. "I underestimated you, Captain. I'm sorry." He swallowed, his eyes teeming with honesty and genuine sincerity. "It will never happen again."

Steve was surprised. "Thank you, sir," he said. He returned the salute, crisp and respectful. Anderson seemed pleased by that, holding Steve's gaze steadily for quite a long moment. After that, he followed Phillips.

The colonel stopped by her on his way deeper into the camp. "Agent Carter, I need you with me. I want you to coordinate the battalion's withdrawal with Major Anderson. I want every man up and out of here by nightfall."

That wasn't at all what she wanted to hear. Or what she wanted to do. She caught Steve's eyes, not missing the longing and frustration in them. But this was the army. Everything else had to wait. "Yes, sir."

It took most of the rest of the day before she was finally able to slip away. The Commandos were gathered in a newly erected tent near the rear of the rapidly emptying camp. It was strange to see the base like this, quiet and peaceful rather than filled with men starving, huddled together for warmth, suffering and fearing for their lives. It seemed like a ghost town now. She walked quietly, pausing here and there to help where she could. Finally she reached the tent.

Dugan, Falsworth, and Jones were outside, their guns slung over their shoulders, their belts and packs newly stocked with ammunition and supplies. It seemed like they were standing guard. They probably were. "Agent Carter," Falsworth greeted.

"Looking for the Cap?" Dugan asked. She nodded. "In there with Buck."

They parted, discussing plans to drive one of the refugees back down to his family tomorrow, and let her walk closer to the tent. She stopped at its flap, listening to the muffled conversation inside. Perhaps it wasn't right to eavesdrop, but she couldn't help herself.

"You have no idea how frightened I was."

"I know. I'm sorry, Buck."

"Don't apologize. You did what you had to. You always do. Just wonderin' if I'll ever get used to it."

Steve chuckled. "Don't want you to. The day you stop worryin' about me–"

"–is the day hell looks like this. I know." It was quiet a moment. Barnes' voice came back, softer and thick with pride. "You really are a hero. Part of me always knew you would be. The other part… Damn it, Stevie."

"I don't go it alone, you know. Couldn't do any of it without you."

Barnes sniffed, and his voice wavered with a happy sob. "You're such a damn punk, Rogers."

"Learned from the best."

Peggy smiled. There was a shuffling sound. Then, "Here. Take this back. You made it in time."

"Did I?"

"Yep."

"Lost track of the days. Kinda tired."

"Yeah, you idiot. You've even got a few hours to spare. Somehow that thing survived all this. I guess it's meant to be."

"Guess so."

"Good thing, too. Giving that to her wasn't something I was looking forward to. She's about as scary as you are when you get mad." She could practically hear Steve's grin. Bucky sighed. "Gonna get something to eat. Finally. Want me to bring you something?"

"Sure."

Barnes was pushing the tent flap aside after that. Peggy nearly lurched away, trying (probably unsuccessfully) to hide that she'd been listening when she shouldn't have been. However, if Barnes was upset, it wasn't obvious. He just smiled knowingly at her, his eyes glittering in so much relief and joy that it was almost infectious. In that moment, she saw him as he'd been when they'd met in that bar in London, young and rakish and charming. Steve Rogers' best friend. The man he'd become Captain America to save. The man who'd made Captain America. A hero in his own right. "Evenin', ma'am."

"Sergeant," she said. She wanted to thank him for everything he'd ever done for Steve, for protecting him in their youths to protecting him now, for helping to mold Steve into the man he was today. But the words were lodged in her throat, and she couldn't manage them.

It didn't matter. Barnes seemed to understand and appreciate it anyway. "He's been waitin' for you."

She blushed. Actually blushed. It was damn well embarrassing, but she found she couldn't care. Bucky moved away, walking tall and strong. She watched him until he was lost in the shadows.

Then she opened the flap of the tent. There was a bedroll, supplies, blankets and bandages and lanterns. Captain America's shield, burnt and streaked with soot but somehow still shining. And Steve. He was sitting on a crate, his uniform gone. He wore a clean white shirt and fatigues. There were bandages, bruises, but he'd found time to wash and none of his injuries look serious. He wasn't even shivering, despite the cold. He looked up at her and his face softened, still a tad dirty and very tired, but he smiled that smile he always had for her. "Hey." There was a little box beside him on the crate, red and black with a gold bow. He fumbled to get it. "Happy Valentine's Day? I thought I missed it."

She was across the tent in two huge steps, grabbing his face and pulling him to her. "Peg," he gasped. She didn't care, holding him tight to her chest. He didn't even try to escape. "Peggy, it's alright."

She loosed half a sob against his hair. It was suddenly all there and undeniable. She'd been lying to Howard, lying to herself. She'd been so afraid. Afraid that he'd fail. Afraid that he'd die. Afraid he wouldn't come back. But he had come back. And he was alright. Warm and strong and safe, just as he always was. "I know it is," she gasped.

"I'm okay."

"I know you are."

He held her as much as she held him, realizing now on the other side of so much danger and distress how close they'd come to losing each other. "You told me once I was meant for more," he said into her stomach, his eyes closing as she carded her hands through his hair. "That's why I had to do it, Peg."

_You're meant for more. You're meant for me. _"I know."

They said nothing for what felt like a long time. She swore she could feel his heart beating as she swept her fingers down his cheek to his neck. He finally looked up at her, staring with dazed eyes, worshipful like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. That was more than a little incredible. "Are _you_ alright?" he asked.

She closed her eyes a moment, not exactly knowing the answer to that question but thinking that she was now. "Yes."

"Then here." He stood gingerly, towering over her. He took the box and handed it to her. He was actually nervous, the big fool. Nervous and still so adorably incapable around women. Around her. "Promised you a present, didn't I?"

She beamed. Lord, this was silly and not at all like her. But she took the tiny box and pulled the tulle bow, excitement bubbling in her belly. And when she unveiled what was inside, a small part of her heart fell. She prayed she kept it from her face. "Oh, thank you, Steve. Really."

He was too smart to be tricked. "You don't like it?"

Caught in her lie, she shifted awkwardly, having absolutely _no _interest in hurting his feelings. Not after everything he'd done. And not after everything he'd gone through to bring this gift to her. "Well, I can't say that I particularly fancy chocolate. But it's wonderful that you even…"

She couldn't finish, because it sounded fake, even to her. She was afraid to look at his face, afraid to see pain or disappointment. But when she finally found it within herself to glance at him, there wasn't anything of the sort. "Sorry." He grinned sheepishly. "Guess I'll know for next time?"

"You didn't have to–"

"Yes, I did. I wanted to."

Did he even realize what he was to her? How he made her feel? "Steve…"

He brushed the backs of his fingers to her cheek. "Peggy."

She took his hand, sweeping her thumb over bruised knuckles. She'd show him. Show him what it was like to win her heart. He'd gone off to war, defeated the enemy, literally saved them all, so he deserved a token of her affection, not the other way around. That made her feel ridiculously bold, so she went with it. She set the box back down on the crate and smiled. "Actually, you brought me exactly what I wanted."

"What's that?"

She grabbed a handful of his shirt and pulled him closer. He went. Laughable, really, that she was moving him. But she was. "You, Captain." His eyes were dark in the dim light of the tent. Dark and fathomless. "You came back to me."

"Told you I would."

"You might be SSR's savior and America's hero," she murmured, leaning closer, "but you're my sweetheart, aren't you?"

Steve smiled, and her heart flipped, nearly betraying how desperately she was trying to seem calm and coy. "Yeah," he whispered. "Always."

"And I'm your girl." _Always._ "So kiss me."

She'd been waiting a while for this. Quite a while, in fact. A million missed opportunities, restrained moments, dreams she wouldn't acknowledge, chances she'd let go. She wasn't letting this one go. And when he kissed her, it was everything she'd imagined it would be. Soft and sweet and timid. For a moment, anyway. It turned deeper, more passionate, more powerful than she'd dreamed. She knew it was because _he_ was everything she dreamed he would be. Everything she'd ever wanted. Everything she could have hoped for. He was everything _they all_ could have hoped for. A kid from Brooklyn. A friend and a brother. A good man. A soldier. A leader. A hero. A savior. An avenger.

Captain America.

_"You're asking me if I would have changed my mind, done things differently, if I'd known what would happen to me. I… No. No, never. Losing everyone and everything… It hurt. It hurt a lot. And not just me. The people who loved me lost me just as much as I loved and lost them. Without them, without Bucky… Peggy… All the men who fought at my side… I wouldn't have had the strength to do what I did or be who I am. And waking up, here and now… I can't even describe what it's like. But not fighting was never an option. Not for me. If I can save someone, if I can do the right thing, I'll do it, no matter what. When people are laying down their lives to stop evil, I've got no right to do any less than that."  
><em>– Steve Rogers, 2012

**THE END**

After tackling this story, I can see why there aren't too many tales of the Howling Commandos during World War II. Whew, this one was tough. The research. Writing characters that don't have a whole lot of screen time. Writing war scenes (that was harder than I thought it would be). I hope it turned out okay. Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate your comments and your interest. And thanks to E for helping me find a historical context for the blockade.

Next I'll be focusing on "Cloud Cover". And in a few weeks I'll be starting the sequel to "The Road Not Taken". Hope to see you again!

Feel free to follow me on Twitter (thegraytigress) for story updates, announcements, and discussions!


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